Crossroads
by Mitzig
Summary: A mirror group of the seven arrives in town and could tear the peacekeepers apart.
1. Chapter 2

**I write with what I think of as the "Clint Eastwood" theory of western heroes. They seldom speak about themselves and what we learn about them is what others say or how they react to situations. I believe still waters run deep and these characters think about a lot of things they can't or won't talk about. I like to imagine the thought processes that bring them to their actions and decisions. If, when you read, you separate the spoken dialogue from the thought processes, I think you'll recognize the characters you are used to in the TV series. I just like to imagine what makes them tick that they don't say.**

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The nine men that appeared out of the fog loped their horses down the middle of Four Corners' main street as if they owned it and defied anyone to take it back. It was late and dark so few people observed the impressive arrival. But confidence and strength came naturally to these men and it was not something put on for show.

Josiah Sanchez stood on the balcony outside the clinic and waited for Nathan Jackson. He observed this band of riders from the outskirts of town until they dismounted their horses and entered the saloon.

It was the way his mind worked that at the same time this observer of men noted the fog creeping into the small town of Four Corners it occurred to him that it held many similarities to the cigar and roll-your-own smoke in the tavern - as many similarities as it held differences.

The texture and density of both the fog and smoke were similar. They both enhanced their dark and shadowy environs that held, each their own, kinds of secrets. They both had their own wild smells; one from the vast frontier surrounding the town, the other from the humanity packed too tightly in too close quarters.

And they both wafted away, like sentient things, from this particular company of men that passed through them.

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When the nine entered the saloon all eyes were drawn to them.

Inez Rocillios couldn't help but notice how these men moved with the same confidence as the seven regulators who protected the town. Something about them said the whole was more powerful than the sum of the individual parts.

Chris Larabee, slouched low in his usual straight back chair, long legs stretched far in front of him, watched the men from beneath the brim of his hat. Trouble. He appraised easily and finished off the last half of the shot glass.

Buck Wilmington didn't let his evaluation of the men affect him any more than his old time friend did. Capable of trouble and looking for it were two different things. Maybe they just wanted a drink.

Vin Tanner, hunter of men, evaluated the individuals rather than the group. He didn't like what he saw.

JD Dunne watched the men with the same impressionable awe with which he still observed all things that were so uniquely The West. Men like these personified this territory to him - bigger than life. The young easterner was unaware of the fact that he seemed to have this same fluid grace when he moved as one with the six other lawmen he called friends.

Without a word seven of the new arrivals broke off and took possession of a pair of tables. Rowdy, boisterous and loud, they scattered the local men and working girls who found somewhere else to be without a word spoken. The men took over the chairs.

With a heavy sigh Larabee pulled himself to his feet. Before he stood in front of the newcomers, Vin Tanner and Buck flanked him, casually, but with a combined air of authority to match those at the tables.

JD arrived a moment later. He wasn't as adept at reading Larabee as the other two men, but he was good at reading Wilmington. He moved to cover his partners until this most recent disruptive force had been assessed.

The leader of the men was obvious, despite the fact that he was probably one of the youngest in the gang. Vin put him at 24 or 25 years. He had light brown eyes, almost yellow. The golden brown bangs were as long as the hair on the back of his head. It fell across his eyes and gave the impression of a lone wolf watching them through dry winter straw. He sported a sawed off shotgun in a well-worn, modified holster.

Buck Wilmington saw in those golden eyes a frightening element. He saw deadly similarities between those eyes and the eyes of the man he stood by now. It was the look of one who had lost someone dear; lost part of what made him human.

Buck was glad that he only rarely had to see that look on his old friend's face these days. He didn't want to linger on those thoughts too long. They broached questions that reminded him that there were times that he wasn't proud of the man he himself had been; the man that had stood beside Larabee in those days. But damn, what a motivator guilt can be.

He forced his mind back to evaluating the young blond and his gang. The other men followed him because they respected him? Or feared him? Or did they respect the kind of thing that he was?

Buck had always held a secret hope that part of what had brought Larabee back - or kept him alive to bring himself back - or kept him alive to let Vin and the others bring him back - was the fact that Buck did not respect the man he was in those days. He didn't respect the anger or the willingness to gun a man down in the street. He didn't respect hiding in a bottle or lashing out in anger at anyone around whether they were the cause of the anger or not. And he didn't respect betraying a friendship under the justification of anger.

These men, or a majority of them, did respect those things. A casual side-glance at Vin said that the astute tracker had come to basically the same judgment.

Buck wondered briefly what part of Vin's shuttered past let him identify these emotionally dead traits in one so young and the men who followed him. He hoped Vin never had the same frame of reference from which he himself had to see this. He prayed Vin would never see that Chris Larabee.

The evaluation took a heartbeat. Vin met Buck's eye and was once again amazed how intuitive the scoundrel was that he could read men so easily. Wilmington tried to give the impression he rarely pondered on things.

But Vin knew these men. He had looked down his mare's leg at their kind and down the scope of his rifle at them. And some of them he had killed with no more consideration than if they had been rabid dogs.

Vin mentally shook his head to clear the thoughts. He would have been surprised to know how much like Buck he was in this aspect. Now that he had found this town and these men, he didn't want to remember the past. He didn't want them to find out the sordid details.

Vin's eyes slid across to glance at Larabee. The fact that Chris didn't like what he was seeing, the anger, the bloodlust, the arrogance, the lack of respect for human life, ratcheted the tension up a notch.

The dark gunfighter met the group's young leader's eyes with hooded lids and casualness gauged to antagonize the hotheaded youth.

Ezra Standish, ensconced in a poker game, didn't join in the posturing but came to a higher level of alertness in case he was needed. No one at the table was able to tell he was aware of what was going on.

"Even crowded as it is, I don't rightly think Inez would appreciate you runnin' off her regular customers," Buck opened the conversation. Careful to never get between Chris and Vin's guns and the other men, he did, as was his habit, walk right up to them with the clear indication that if they were asking for trouble he would accommodate.

"Didn't say a word to 'em," the leader replied. As he had been sized up, so had he sized up this man in the long duster and his compadres. He didn't see anything to back down from.

"Didn't tell 'em to keep their seats." Chris was pushing now, by force of will more than words. If these men wanted to start something, better to know now. The blonde met his cool gaze with eyes slanted up at him lazily and defiantly that said, Bring it on.

It was then that the last of the two strangers wove their way through the peacekeepers and distributed the beer mugs and pitchers among their friends. One, an older, ruddy complected redhead was in the lead. His graying, grizzled beard had a natural, untrimmed look.

"We forget we're a little rough lookin'," he volunteered, with a brilliant smile that would rival Buck Wilmington. "Just finished a cattle drive. Headed back to Oklahoma. Name's Red Clayton." He sat down the beer to put a beefy paw out to shake.

They've already dropped the trailhands. These are the men who work the ranch year 'round. Their loyalty is to the kid-rancher. Larabee added this new information to the mix.

"This here's the boss of the rockin' J's, Jason Miller," he introduced the defiant one that was still trying to stare down Chris Larabee. He didn't offer his hand. "That one's his kid brother, Kyte." Red nodded toward the reedy youth with slightly darker and wilder hair who had helped him distribute the beers. He was trying to grow a mustache and goatee, probably in an attempt to hide his still youthful features. "We'll be headed out in the morning."

Red still held his hand out. Buck took it and shook it amiably. Then Vin followed suit.

Chris gave a curt nod and moved on. Red's jovial smile turned into a smirk that reminded Vin of Standish. But the good-natured foreman did nothing more to recognize the slight; he didn't seem to be bothered by it.

Maybe there was something to this civilization stuff Josiah smiled. He and Nathan had entered during the confrontation. The alpha males and their packs had faced off and it hadn't resulted in immediate bloodshed. He clapped Nathan on the back and steered him toward the back table to arrive there at the same time as Chris, Vin and JD.

Chris didn't miss the fact that Buck wandered back toward a pair of saloon girls and Ezra on the raised dais. There was no hostility in the absence. But after the potential threat was evaluated, he just had places he'd rather be than sharing a table with them. Been happening quite a bit lately. Larabee thought. He was used to Buck sharing these moments.

It didn't bother Chris when, after one of these altercations, Buck, instead of coming to Larabee's table, took the time to spend with JD. He would explain what had happened or why, or tease out any residual nervousness that the situation had caused the kid.

But JD was with them at the table. He still thought the burning whiskey tasted like medicine, but he was sipping a beer instead of milk. The nervous, unsure episodes were fewer all the time.

No, Buck had wandered over to heckle the gambler. Those two shouldn't get along like that, Larabee thought. Buck was all honesty and loyalty. Ezra Standish was deception and probably had more loyalty to that deck of cards than to any man.

Wilmington had best not be expecting the con man to be there to watch his back. Not like I am... That thought frozen in the dark gunfighter's brain. There had been times Buck had expected him to "be there" and he wasn't.

Maybe Buck knows Ezra won't be there. If he doesn't expect anything he won't be disappointed. Yeah, there had been times The thought started for Larabee, ... no, damn it, still and all, those two were too much trouble when they were together.

Larabee felt eyes on him and realized he'd been focused on Buck making his way across the room - walking away from him. JD was watching his friend now, trying to see what his hero was seeing. If Josiah and Nathan had noticed they had the good graces and good sense not to acknowledge anything and continued an amiable conversation.

Only Tanner blatantly met his eyes. The tracker seemed to read something that even the gunslinger wasn't aware of. Figure it out, Larabee. Vin screamed in his mind. He didn't let the thoughts out in word or facial expression.

Tanner remembered a night not long enough passed when Buck had told him how to gauge Larabee's drunkenness and then left him to care for their friend. Buck had said he himself was nothing but a vessel for old, painful memories for their friend.

Buck was still pulling away - leaving his best friend with new amigos that didn't reflect bad times.

Wilmington thought he was doing what was for the best, and deep down believed Larabee would appreciate the distance. But more recently, in the desert, when a delirious and hurt Wilmington turned to Ezra Standish for comfort, the gunfighter had not appreciated it at all.

And there would come a time if things kept going the way they were, when Larabee would be jealous as hell. The tracker wasn't sure Larabee would recognize the emotion. All of his feelings came back to anger in the end. Sometimes the somber widower knew what he was angry about. Sometimes he had to look for a target for the anger. And the tracker wasn't sure what Larabee would do if he ever got the chance to see the gambler as having betrayed their friend.

Vin felt a partial responsibility for Buck's withdrawal. The closeness between the infamous gunfighter and himself probably, on some levels, seemed to push the other man away.

Vin wished Buck could see that, on a superficial level, he had just as much trouble connecting and communicating with the taciturn shootist. It was on a deeper level, which he himself couldn't explain that he knew the loyalty he shared with Larabee.

Just as clearly he knew that bond was still there between the two old friends if they would wake up to it. Figure it out, Larabee. And figure what you want to do about it before it's too late. Vin took another drink as he realized that Larabee, too was lost in thought.

"What do you think?" Larabee was startled by the question, partially because he wasn't interested in sharing his current uncomfortable observations. Neither his surprise nor his discomfort at the question showed as his eyes slowly made it around the table, trying to think back and remember where the conversation had been heading before he was distracted.

Then the healer broke the moment by nodding toward the nine ranch hands and Chris realized he was referring to them.

"A powder keg," was his evaluation.

"Best stay close... make sure no one lights a fuse," Josiah observed.

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It didn't take long before the Rockin' J's men drifted apart. When they did, JD noticed, with some reflection, they lost the formidable aura they maintained as a group.

Dunne snorted derisively at the youngest, Kyte, who was flirting in a juvenile way with a saloon girl.

"That one stumbles and goofs around like a wolf pup posturing for the pack," JD made this observation to Josiah as he accompanied the elder of their group to the bar for refills. "Well, he does," the youngest of the seven added defensively in response to the inscrutable look on the Preacher's face.

Josiah forced himself not to shake his head or rub a big hand over his face as he reflected on the young man who made the statement - as that young man turned around too fast from the bar and "goofily" stumbled into one of the trailhands.

The grizzled, leathery man with the handlebar mustache, Mike, shoved JD away and into a town regular who smiled patiently, steadied him, smiled at Josiah and sent them on their way. Yep, the packs made allowances for their own whelps.

Behind them, Kyte's eyes went wide and he barely remembered his manners to excuse himself from the courtesan as he hurried back to his brother.

Kyte couldn't wait to work his way back to their tables with his news. "Do you know who that was?" He asked, awestruck as he nodded to the somber man in black that had recently confronted them. "That's Chris Larabee."

Still no one seemed impressed. "Chris Larabee," he said in a smaller voice.

Jason finished his beer in a chug. "I'm gonna see how much of this trail dust I can wash off." He pointed his forefinger at his kid brother meaningfully.

"I know. I ain't gonna get in trouble," Kyte replied defensively.

Jason cut his eyes to his left. Red met the look and knew what it meant. "I'll watch out for him."

"Don't need watchin' out for," the youngster pouted.

Jason gave a brotherly snort of skepticism and strode out the door.

As JD sat back down, he pretended not to watch Buck kibitzing behind Ezra with one of the new girls on his lap. It was only town regulars at the poker table tonight. And they knew their mustached peacekeeper delighted in teasing Standish on the rare occasions that he would lose, and so they enjoyed the light banter between the two.

Even so, Buck carefully sat behind his friend so that no one would suspect him of giving tells as to the other men's hands.

And Ezra indifferently let the lanky gunslinger sit behind him where even six months ago he would never have trusted his exposed back to any man, even a so-called friend.

"Geez, Ezra, there ain't many spots on them cards in your hand," Buck laughed as he winked at Lilith.

"That, Mr. Wilmington, is because these are called face cards," the Southerner deadpanned. "They do not have 'spots'. Perhaps we have found a partial explanation for your abhorrent poker skills."

The other players laughed. Buck stretched forward and tipped the gambler's hat over his eyes.


	2. Chapter 3

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The redheaded foreman who was mussing young Kyte's hair as he kidded him about something, got up and moseyed to the bar for another beer.

The leader of the men had turned in early. The five remaining, including Mike, laughed at Red and Kyte's shared joke. Kyte begrudgingly followed his friend up to the bar.

JD noticed how the younger Miller followed Red about, almost unconscious of the fact. And the older man kept an almost paternal eye on the boy. No matter what was going on in the crowded, dizzyingly active room, the man knew where his young charge was. What was with the kid? JD thought bitterly. Did he need a babysitter?

JD watched the interaction between the two strangers and his eyes slid involuntarily up the raised dais. He could see Buck laughing and the shoulder of Ezra's red jacket.

JD was worried that Buck was still mad at him over a recent incident where JD had called out some gunmen. They had tried to kill JD. They had tried to kill Ezra. They had tried to kill Buck. But for some reason a fast draw contest - to JD a fair fight - another true part of The West - had angered his friend.

Buck happened to look up about the time the lad peeked in his direction. That brilliant, open smile, a wink, and a slight nod for JD to join them was all the boy needed. Buck had told him he didn't like the stunt and now it was forgotten.

Dunne realized it was his own guilty conscience and the remembered expression on the older man's face, the disappointment and some unrecognizable fear, that had made him uncomfortable.

Beer mug in hand, the young sheriff was on his feet headed toward his other two friends. He even tossed a smile at Kyte Miller as they slid past each other in the close quarters of the Saturday night crowd.

Larabee's face was unreadable as he watched his three trouble magnets migrate toward each other.

"Chris?" His attention was drawn back to his table and he realized Nathan had had to repeat himself.

"Nathan?"

"I said I was planning on headin' out to the village in the morning. Think I should hold off?"

"Any trouble they're gonna cause will be tonight when they're all liquored up."

"Most of 'em've turned in," Vin observed.

"Maybe we'll luck out," Josiah smiled.

"Ezra Standish, you murderin' son of a bitch!" echoed through the saloon and cut through the sounds in the room.

"Then again, maybe not."

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Wandering through the smoky, dimly lit saloon Red Clayton decided to investigate the even more crowded raised dais where he suspected a poker game was in play.

He froze and his blood ran cold when he saw the man at the green felt table. The beer mug, almost to his lips, was forgotten.

The fear of what was to come was reflected in his eyes, "Ezra Standish, you murderin' son of a bitch!" These were his words that cut through the bar and back to the Seven's table.

Nothing seemed to happen at first, as everyone froze, trying to decide who had spoken and if there was an immediate threat.

Ezra glanced up from his cards with practiced calm as he'd done in similar situations so many times before. He moved with calculated ease so as not to escalate an already volatile situation. His right arm shifted away from his card hand to point his derringer in the general direction of the voice. He couldn't place the face of the angry man in front of him.

But when the man threw his beer mug to the floor, the crash of the breaking glass was like a starting gun. Ezra moved to activate his derringer.

Buck rose, pushed the saloon girl toward the stairs; toward safety, and, drawing his gun, moved away from Ezra so that they did not present a singular target. He moved so he could try to cover both Ezra and JD who he could see headed their way.

Sudden sounds acted as dangerous distractions for the peacekeepers. Each scrape or voice might present a threat and the noises were coming from all different angles - Chairs scrapped across the rough-hewn floor; a couple of them tipped over with a crash.

Ezra registered that the former occupants of the poker table were merely in a hurry to vacate the premises and not pushing the chairs back preparatory to joining the fray.

Leathers, denim and cotton rustled together. Muffled profanity blended in.

Some people weren't even sure why they were running. It was this last, this panic of the unknown, that made the stampede-like exodus even wilder.

JD had unholstered his gun and headed up the few short steps to his friends. He was having about as much success as a salmon swimming upstream. He was fighting for all he was worth against the current of men and women who had so recently crowded the upstairs area as they now attempted to depart from the inevitable confrontation - none of their seven backed down from a fight.

JD's head bobbed furiously trying to get a glance at Buck or Ezra to at least be sure they were still standing. The screams and shouts and curses prevented him from hearing what was going on.

Ezra had established his poker table as the one closest to the four steps leading up to the area. It allowed him a covert view of the entire bar. It protected his back. Everyone else who found a table up here must walk past him. The clink of coin, the shuffle of cards would lure them toward his table coming and going.

But now he had discovered a drawback to this location. With his newly discovered, maudlin sense of responsibility, and the way everyone was seeking safety by having to move between him and the red-headed stranger, he couldn't get a shot off without endangering innocent lives. If I die under these circumstances, please don't let Mother find out. The gambler registered all of this in the time it took the small gun to spring into his hand.

Buck and Ezra, still forced to hold their fire, worked the room with their eyes, searching out all points of potential trouble.

The redheaded ranch foreman had yet to move. It was the two simultaneous movements in his peripheral vision; at opposite angles and that seemed out of place, that drew the gambler's attention and had the hair on the back of his neck on end. Two guns came up and in his direction.

Ezra realized that neither he nor Buck could get a clear shot for fear of hitting the locals and other patrons who ran past them in an attempt to escape the danger.

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The sounds of twin gunfire echoed off each other and ripped across the rest of the room.

Where JD had only now fought his way to the action, the current of humanity parted like the Red Sea before Chris Larabee's focused need to check on and back up his friends.

Already on their feet even before the report reverberated along the walls and down each of their spines, Vin, Josiah and Nathan formed a tight flying wedge behind their leader and were able to reach the other end of the saloon at almost the same time as Dunne.

Young Kyte Miller, at the 10 o'clock angle and that Neanderthal that had answered to Mike at his three o'clock had Standish covered. Ezra realized that if he dodged one of them, he would place himself right in the sights of the other.

Where the hell were all these fleeing people coming from? They couldn't have all fit up here. His mind was wandering because he'd already recognized he didn't have a way out. Maybe they wouldn't shoot with all the innocent people in the way.

"Ezra! Left!"

Before the words were out of Buck's mouth, the gambler was responding. He dove to his left, toward the tall ladies' man. Buck reared back and used one of his long legs to kick the poker table across the floor to plow into Kyte's midsection. It knocked the air out of him and deflected his aim down as it doubled him over.

Then the shots rang out.

Trevor Daniels, the father of four grown children, who only came into town one Saturday a month, fell as he accidently ran between Ezra Standish and the gunmen.

A second bullet hit a heavy beer mug on the round table as Ezra nose-dived past it. He flinched back as the thick, fat chunks of glass pelted his left arm, torso and face.

Blinded by the blood streaming from the cuts at his temple and cheek and just below his ear, the southerner reflexively reached up with his left hand to stem the flow. He felt his back against the wall, and pulled his knees up to support the arm that pointed the derringer in the general direction he thought the danger now came from. He tried to evaluate the danger by using his other senses.

Kyte Miller again took aim on the helpless gambler. Wilmington, seeing this, was pushing bystanders out of his way as fast as he could to clear a shot and save his friend. He wasn't going to get the round off in time.

Even as Wilmington reached a level of despair at his helplessness, the gun leapt from the blonde youth's hand and blood billowed from just below the knuckles in the same instant that another gunshot echoed through the room.

Buck allowed himself a sigh of relief. Not many people would dare a shot like that. Chris Larabee was that good. Looking at his old time friend, Buck noted that Larabee had only shot the gun out of the boy's hand. That was not something the gunfighter would usually do when an individual was threatening someone under his protection.

At the same time Mike, the leathery trail hand, was also taking second aim at their friend. The man was backed up against the upper deck's railing. Buck raised his gun. But just then Josiah reached two huge hands around from over the railing. He wrapped one fist over the .45's cylinder. When it couldn't turn, the gun was harmless.

As the man spun around to punch Josiah and fight for release of the weapon, his jaw met Vin Tanner's fist three times in quick succession and he fell, stunned, to the sawdust covered floor. His grip loosened in his dazed state, his gun stayed in Josiah's hand.

Nathan spun and aimed his revolver on the remaining members of the group. By that time Vin had them covered as well. Josiah had his and Mike's gun pointed at the men.

JD had both his guns drawn and was dividing his attention between the men below and the tableau closer to him.

The men below reminded Dunne of a cattle herd milling restlessly in the heavy ominous air before a thunderstorm broke loose and lightening threatened its random deadly attacks. It would take very little to set them off.

But so far the men were contained in their tracks. Formidable while backing up the gunmen in their cadre, alone the cowhands knew they were no match for these shootists.

Up above, Buck and Chris helped JD cover Red and the two would-be shooters. There wasn't much to it.

Mike was dazed and still down.

Kyte was bordering on shock from pain and blood loss. Red didn't seem to be aware of anything but wrapping his bandana around the youngster's wound to stop the bleeding and speaking gentle reassurances in his ear.

Ezra sat staring at a sliver of wood the bullet had bitten out of his table. It had the tiniest scrap of green felt still adhering to it. Everything had gone quiet around him. Things were under control.

He should get up and help take stock of the situation, but he found himself sitting, thinking. Nathan would probably believe he was in shock. Maybe he was.

Wilmington had been here.

He had known the others would come to back him, they had on many an occasion. But it was always after the fact. And he sometimes wondered if it wasn't as much to keep the peace as to protect their seventh man. And they had covered each other's backs before, but that was when they knew trouble was coming and covering each other was part of the game they had bought into.

Wilmington had been there.

To have one of the others present out of camaraderie when he needed them was something new. It was a singularly new experience and brought with it, even among the chaos, a new and calming feeling. He wondered if any of the others would understand the difference.

It was only later he would have time to question whether he wanted the responsibility; whether anything in his raising made him ready for the responsibility of that kind of friendship.

As soon as the tension in the room dissipated to a point where people would hopefully think before they acted, Nathan lowered his gun and moved quickly to the body of Trevor Daniels on the floor. Dark, almost purple/black blood spread thickly from the body and mingled with the sawdust. He had been dead as soon as the bullet hit. Nathan's eyes relayed the information to their leader. Then he moved on to their Southern partner.

Ezra had his left hand cupped at his jawline to stem the blood. His right hand still held the derringer.

"Ezra. Ezra?" The tall healer gently lowered the derringer to the floor. "Ezra!" Finally the gambler blinked and directed his gaze at the other man. Wherever he had been, he was back with them now.

The ex-slave quickly grabbed Standish's arm as he would have reached up to rub at his temple. "Hell, Ezra, you look like a porcupine with all that glass stuck in you." The healer tried to make light of the damage because he was the only one so far to see that one large sliver of the mug had imbedded in the laugh lines at the other man's left eye. Much too close.

The healer very unprofessionally grabbed the offending glass and pulled it from the folds of skin. He threw it away.

"Ow, damn it, Mr. Jackson. You could warn a man."

"Then it woulda hurt while you thought about it, hurt while I pulled it and hurt after. Now it only hurts after."

"I'll have to contemplate that logic, sir."

Inez materialized at Nathan's side and dabbed at the blood rivulets running down Ezra's face. Nathan thanked her with a nod and his tone of voice, but his words were more to the point, "Thank you, Ma'am, but best you get back, out of any line of fire."

She nodded, her head bowed, grieving for Daniels and guiltily offering up a selfish prayer of thanks that it wasn't Ezra lying there. The feathery brush of fingers across his upper arm relayed those thoughts to Ezra more clearly and more touchingly than any words ever could.

Her fingers passed across Buck's arm in a similar touch as she moved gracefully and quietly away. It said thank you for being safe and thank you for, as usual, protecting those who need protecting.

Even though his gun arm never wavered and his eyes never stopped scanning for potential danger, the kindhearted scoundrel smiled and winked. He didn't want her mood to get too serious. He didn't like serious. It could do a lot more damage than ugly. It led to other serious moments and to thinking too much.

Inez shook her head as if she were giving up on something, smiled, extended a final gentle touch to JD's cheek like a big sister would to her kid brother, and was gone.

Damn. Damn. Damn. Dunne berated himself. He just knew that the fiery senorita had seen that he was so nervous he was sweating buckets while the others seemed so composed and in control. He swallowed hard and resisted the urge to wipe the single bead of sweat from where it tickled his eyebrow and threatened to drip into his eye.

"Kyte needs help over here," Red bellowed.

"He can wait," Buck growled. The two men stared each other down. The concern of each for theirs was evident and stoked the anger in both.

"That miserable bastard is responsible for the deaths of two of this kid's brothers."

Nathan looked up quickly from Ezra to the boy at the statement. He had watched Kyte during the night. He hadn't seemed anything but amiable. He reminded Jackson of JD.

What would it take for a kid like that to try to gun a man down? The answer was simple. JD had tried to kill a man very recently for even threatening the men he thought of as family.

"The one he's got left is turned plumb mean with guilt for not being able to save them," Red continued.

The loss of family and the bitterness it caused struck a sympathetic chord with Larabee. Was he projecting his own suddenly buffeted emotions or did it seem that the healer had become torn between whom to treat?

"We'll patch everybody up in the safety of the jail," Chris offered. It would give the lot of them time to regroup.

Larabee saw Buck start over to help Ezra. "Buck. You and JD get that one over there," Chris ordered with a nod toward Mike.

He saw Buck balk at the order and continued deliberately before he could give voice to it. "Nathan, you take Ezra." He knew the self-styled guardian of the group wouldn't argue at having the healer in charge of their wounded friend.

"Vin ..." The leader of the seven let his eyes slide over to the man he'd shot. The foreman saw this. "Ain't nobody touchin' this boy but me," Red demanded.

Chris knew the gunshots and near riot exodus from the bar would soon bring the rest of Miller's men. One man wounded and all of the others forced to divide their attention between the prisoners and the rancher, they would be at a disadvantage.

Chris Larabee was painfully familiar with the look in the eyes of that lobo - that Jason Miller. That one would not think when there were people between him and his family... or his revenge. He was going to be homicidal, suicidal, self-destructive, scared to death, and deadly dangerous; thinking to protect a last remaining loved one.

It didn't sound like that one would have had time for that fear to have frozen his heart and hardened him against those devastating emotions and instincts - or harden him against the loved ones themselves. Larabee mentally shook his head to clear it of those thoughts and replaced them by checking on the location of each of his men. "Have your men stand down," the duster-clad shootist directed coldly. It was clear that this was a condition under which the one man would be allowed to escort the younger ranch owner. The foreman barely nodded but his men backed away. When his eyes met one of them, that trialhand understood the order and, hating to be the one to break the news, nevertheless ran off to notify Jason of the events.


	3. Chapter 4

"Cover him, Vin," Larabee said and nodded toward Red in an effort to get things moving. The Texan nodded and motioned with his mare's leg for the older man and his charge to follow Buck and JD with their prisoner

"Josiah, get someone to make sure Daniels is seen to," Larabee whispered as he watched Miller's man run toward the boarding house. "Then get over to the jail as quick as you can. This ain't over."

Josiah nodded and scanned the stragglers for someone he could trust to follow through on these orders. He, too, wanted to get to the jail as quickly as possible so that they might present a united front to what would come - a united front and an extra gun. He had a suspicion they would need both.

Chris Larabee, gun at ready, followed behind the others as they made their way to the jail.

Josiah covered their progress over the saloon's bat wing doors.

Larabee had caught up with the group by the time they stepped up on the boardwalk at the jail and was able to get between Red and the door. He turned to face the man, "That's far enough." He laid his own surprisingly gentle hand on the boy's arm for support.

"I ain't leavin' the kid with the likes of you."

"If you want that hand tended to you'll stay outside. If my man's going to be in the cell with him and the door open, I'm not takin' any chances."

The boy was barely conscious, and was in no way aware of all that was going on around him.

Nathan joined Larabee at the door. "Hand's a powerful touchy place to take a bullet. I need to tend him as fast as I can."

"You do right by him."

Nathan nodded and there was enough sincerity in his expression for the foreman to back off.

\+ 7+ 7+ 7+7 +7 + +

JD and Buck, Mike already locked in a cell, each grabbed a long rifle and were headed back outside the door. They would be ready when the ranch hands descended on them.

Nathan, backed up by Vin and Chris, edged past them to get inside with his patient.

"Buck..."

"Yeah, kid."

"Nothing."

Wilmington knew what the boy had seen. Already six men were all but running down the street toward the jail.

Jason Miller, in the front, had murder in his eye. His presence was enough like that of Chris Larabee that JD felt the palms of his hands turn sweaty. He positioned his bowler tighter on his head to unobtrusively dry them.

"What happened?" Miller demanded of his foreman as he arrived.

Red stood between Jason and Buck and JD's guns. It was this alone that kept the older Miller from charging for the door; repercussions be damned. He didn't even acknowledge Buck and JD at their posts.

"Stay calm and hear everything, Jase. Remember Kyte's in there being tended to by their doc."

"Tended by their...! Tell me."

"They're protecting Standish in there."

"Ezra Standish?" The rancher made a reflexive move toward the closed door. Red placed a hand on his shoulder to stop him. The younger man brushed the hand away. The long bangs that hung in his face wafted like winter wheat. Even in the night his cold, focused eyes were pinpricks.

"I recognized him, was going to call him out. The others drew down on me. My gun never cleared leather. Mike and Kyte tried to cover me."

Buck took that statement like a blow. It had all happened so fast, could it have looked like that?

JD didn't think how things looked; he knew how things had been. "That's a damn lie. They drew first."

Jason ignored JD. He again moved toward the door, his hand on the butt of his gun. Red moved to block the way; protect his boss from himself.

"I want to see my brother," Jason growled. And despite the clear history between the two, it was indisputable that he would go through his foreman if he crossed him.

Buck felt a sense of familiarity with the episode unveiling before him. He didn't understand why, but it made him feel uncomfortable and there was a tinge of sympathy for the number two man.

Before Buck could step in, a familiar voice from behind him, that matched Jason for frigidity, made the decision. "Leave your guns outside. No one else comes in. You got five minutes."

There was a space of time where everyone held their breath. Red used his physical form as a buffer between the men.

From experience, Buck knew his presence at Larabee's left, while not a buffer, had a slight calming effect. When things went to hell, the gunslinger had a tendency to dodge right. With Buck positioned where he could move left, and knowing they would be able to take up each other's slack in those most important first seconds, the man in black was willing to meet the fierce golden eyes and let the lost soul behind them make the first move.

Finally Miller loosened his gun belt and handed it to his foreman. He rotated his body so that he never broke eye contact with the leader of the seven as he made his way into the small jail.

With a slight nod Buck directed JD to go inside and followed; continuing their watch from within the walls of the suddenly small space.

Jason stopped with his back to the wall once he entered the building and took in his surroundings and the odds. Mike seemed frightened when he saw his boss enter. He almost looked like he was glad he had the cell bars to separate them.

The door to Kyte's cell was still open and Nathan was working on him.

Chris and Vin moved to positions of advantage out of habit.

Buck was surprised to see that Nathan was tending to Kyte in the cell while Ezra still held only the cup towel that Inez had handed him to his head. The towel was soaked in blood. Even understanding that head wounds bled a lot, it worried the ladies' man.

Jason Miller's angry voice brought Wilmington back to what was going on in the room.

"You've killed your last man over a cheatin' card game," the feral young man growled as he took a step toward Ezra.

The gambler straightened from where he had been slouched against the wall.

Vin glided between them. "I thought you wanted to check on your brother," he drawled.

One brother's eyes slid over to where the other's were waiting for him. The one was accusatory, the other apologetic.

"You alright?"

Kyte nodded.

"We'll talk when I get you out of here."

Kyte nodded again, not enthusiastic over the promise; or was it a threat?

"We'll wire the judge to settle the charges," Chris stated.

Jason ignored him. "You're a dead man, Standish. If I have to kill every lawman in this place; if I have to take down this whole town, you'll be dead and my brother comes out of that cell." Then he was gone.

Jason brushed past Josiah as the older man entered the jail.

Josiah read people like others read books. His studies had, surprisingly, taught him more about Man who creates, molds and enforces controls on institutions like religion than it had taught him about religion itself.

With the innocence of childhood Josiah had questioned how one God could have so many contradictory theologies saying they knew how He wanted to be worshiped. With the insight of the rebelliousness brought on by puberty, he determined that it was Man trying to leave a legacy that dictated to others how to worship. That had led to a study of mankind and how they thought, how they interacted, how they manipulated.

Until recently, until he met these six other men, the defrocked priest's critique of his fellow man had led him to willingly choose the life of a virtual hermit. He put all of that study and experience and testing of his own theories into trying to figure out this most recent confrontation.

Then he saw Jason Miller's body language as he passed. With that, he grabbed another rifle and quickly positioned himself alongside Buck and JD to guard the door.

A part of the gentle Goliath's mind that watched the shadows was drawn to the dry smoke from the small street fires and the moist fog. The vapors occupied the same space, much like the two groups of men co-existed in the town. Still the differences, still the similarities couldn't be denied. For now there was balance between the two. A temporary balance.

"What about Ezra?" Josiah heard Buck ask.

"I'll have to tweezer some glass out, clean him up. You can start if you want. This boy could lose the use of his hand if I don't get something done." There was more iciness in the voice than he wanted to allow. The facts, as stated, might be true, but...

"He tried to kill a friend of yours, Nathan," Buck offered in response to the tone of voice.

"He tried to kill a gambler and a con man who he says he killed two brothers. Probably tried to swindled his family out of that ranch."

JD was stunned by the statement and involuntarily switched his eyes from guarding the street to the situation inside. He was trying to determine if he had misunderstood.

The hurt in Ezra's eyes at the accusation touched Buck who came to his defense. "You don't know that."

"I know the boy has two dead brothers over a card game and he blames Ezra."

"Nathan..." Buck's voice was getting low, much like Chris's at his most lethal.

"Of course you'd think he has a side. You're as hedonistic as he is." The word was not one he would regularly use. He spit it out as if he had learned it as a curse. "A piece of ass and a good time is all you care about." Buck, without moving, still gave the impression that he had been sucker punched.

"Nathan," Vin responded as if the name came unbidden from his throat.

"Leave it, Tanner," Larabee bit. "If Buck would stay out of other people's business, he wouldn't have to listen to things he didn't want to hear."

"My guess, Mr. Larabee, is that if he had stayed out of your business, you'd be dead by now." Ezra wasn't willing to defend himself, but neither was he willing to let the other man take the brunt of the attack.

"Sorry. I didn't mean that." Nathan sounded sincere as he addressed Buck.

"The thought had to come from somewhere," Buck answered roughly. He had never had cross words with Nathan, always supported him. Didn't that mean anything? He still thought that?

Chris wouldn't meet Buck's eyes. So Wilmington turned back to stare out the window at the darkness. The corners of his eyes tensed up, the laugh lines turning to stress lines, as he fought to shut down on any emotions. He wouldn't look back in the room.

Vin stared at the dark clad leader. He respected the man, trusted his judgment in most things, was proud to call him friend. But how could this man see Nathan's side so clearly and Ezra's not at all?

And why had the verbal attacks suddenly swung from Ezra to Buck?

Well, Vin knew the answer to that one. He'd seen it too many times before. But only recently had he come to recognize it for what it was. Buck would deflect Chris's anger to himself and away from those who weren't used to it.

Larabee's old time friend would say he understood that the gunfighter didn't mean the things he said at times like these. But did he? What had Buck just said to Nathan? The thought had to come from somewhere? And Vin could tell that while Buck had convinced himself he could ignore biting statements from the one, he was not prepared, had not conditioned himself, to ward off the attacks of the others.

Well, if Buck's oldest friend wouldn't stand up for him..."Don't look for me to go along with you in all things, Cowboy. 'Specially people. You'll be disappointed," Vin almost whispered.

"When I think on Cyrus Poplar and Ella Gaines, I find comfort in that." Josiah could hit below the belt when he wanted to. He had been infuriated by the look on Ezra's face as the verbal attack turned from him but at the expense of the one man who would regularly defend him and stand by him.

Josiah realized he was angry at himself because he hadn't been the first to come to the gambler's defense. He was angry at Larabee for never cutting the southerner any slack. And he was angry at Nathan for seeing every bad, hurtful and painful part of his past in the southerner.

Even as he said the inflammatory words, the ex-priest knew most of his anger was building toward Nathan. But he hesitated. Somehow he couldn't use words against Nathan. As strong as their friendship was, it had never been tested by direct, verbal confrontation. He wasn't willing to force the issue now.

Besides, he had seen how Chris used words against Buck and Ezra without even realizing the effects. Josiah wanted to make sure his anger was never cut of that same cloth.

The wise man watched the room and saw an unnatural anger all around as if they were under a spell. Of course that wasn't true, but something about these strangers and their interactions had them all at each others' throats. Why?

He would wait, and think and figure what he thought was going on before he said too much. As much as he felt for the rogue and the conman, he wasn't sure he was willing to risk the friendship he shared with Nathan to defend them.

Everything, so much that had gone through his mind, had coalesced in less than a heart beat, he was pulled back to the room as Larabee responded.

"I don't expect anything..." Chris was biting out, his eyes directed the statement at all the men in the room. At this Buck bowed his head a fraction. The profile he gave to the room as he kept watch hinted at a sad smirk.

But JD, by facing his best friend, left his face open to the room. The young man's expression mirrored his mentor, briefly as if he was trying on the cynical smirk, sad brow and too old eyes, to see what they meant or felt like. Then the expression became his own again. And it was full of worry and wishing he knew what to say.

"You got something to say, Buck?" Chris demanded. He knew if the two of them could go at it he could let off all the anger and Buck would know the words didn't mean anything.

Strangely, Buck didn't respond. And only Ezra saw why. It was in the shoulders held too straight, fighting the slouch of defeat. It was in the eyes that weren't focused, to avoid showing the hurt. It was the salty sting behind your eyes; the vise-like grip that threatened to stop your heart. It was the lonely realization that, while these men would stand beside you in a gunfight, there was a big question as to whether they would ever stand beside you against each other.

Ezra wasn't sure what quicksilver thought process had led Buck from Nathan's attack to this realization, but Ezra knew the look as well as he knew his own reflection in the mirror; in his own heart, because he had fought to hide the same emotions since the day they had banded together. And God, it hurt.

"It's too much in here." After a pause, Buck added, as if to clarify the statement, "Light. Messes up my night vision. I'm gonna keep watch from outside."

He opened the door and JD made to follow him. "You stay put." It was a harsh order like it would be foolish for the boy to make himself a target out of doors and it would be foolish for him to be with Buck right now. JD froze at the tone, but it didn't look like he was going to take the advice.

"Gentlemen, I thought the antagonists were outside." Not in here was the clear implication. This was his battle. Ezra thought bitterly. So why did these internal skirmishes keep going on around him like he wasn't even present? He never asked for support from any of these men like Vin or Buck. And now he knew he didn't want it.

Ezra's head was spinning. He had never had anyone defend him before. Oh, his mother had probably occasionally taken monetary revenge on people who slighted her 'Darling Baby Boy', but he never knew about it. And she kept the money. Now, would the expense for protecting him be that these six men would be at odds with each other?

"Buck, I didn't..." Nathan tried again as he moved to tend to Ezra. It was almost a conciliatory action directed to make amends with Buck. Then, still as an appeasing gesture, he turned to Ezra, "No offense, Ezra, but whatever you've been tryin' to do here in this town, and I'll give that you seem to try to be changing, it don't erase your past."

"Indeed it does not, Mr. Jackson." Ezra pulled away from the dark healer's touch. "And if to receive your ministrations to my wound, I must listen to your contempt, I will assure you that in 'my past' I have been more than capable of taking care of my own injuries."

Nathan seemed stunned that the stubborn man would rather let his wounds go unattended than listen to a few harsh truths.

If the man could not or would not defend himself, didn't that mean he realized he was guilty? Or wasn't he good enough for the Rebel to refute?

If the southerner would speak they could debate the issues and Nathan could prove his side to the others; to himself. So what was it? Could the conman truly think he had a legitimate position in this...

Nathan was jolted when he remembered that someone had recently tried to gun down his southern friend in cold blood. And how worried he had been for that friend until the danger had passed? So when had he, himself forgotten that?

Suddenly he was angry at the entire situation. As if feeding of off Larabee's influence, Nathan's own guilt and remorse presented themselves as anger. "Fine. I'm not needed here. I had plans to spend time at the village. I don't see any reason here to change those plans." He threw the bloodied rag to the floor and started toward the door.

No one said anything. If he chose to ride out in these circumstances, no one could say anything.

"Might take a swing by the Daniels' spread." Josiah reached out and grabbed his oldest friend's arm and met his eyes. "Tell the Missus someone she loves won't be comin' home," Josiah rumbled. And there was a hint of anger in his voice. "Might get used to having to tell people that."

Nathan knew what the Preacher was saying in his nebulous way. We're outnumbered. If there's trouble we'll need your gun. Your help.

Not tonight, Nathan argued to himself. He needed to clear his head. So maybe he wouldn't go to the village but he wasn't staying here in this moment. He was determined to fool himself into believing that Jason Miller had made his play for the night.

Nathan didn't like the ugly things coming from his mouth tonight; didn't trust himself in these moods to hold his tongue. So without another word he pulled away from Josiah and opened the door to leave.

"Ezra, go get cleaned up. Then you can sit with your prisoners," Larabee ordered.

My prisoners? Probably nothing could have brought Ezra out of his own dark thoughts except the cutting words of this man that he admired, unsurprisingly placing the blame on him.

Ezra met the other's green eyes with his usual ambiguous smirk. There were no tells as to the bitterness and anger and disappointment that swirled behind the gambler's eyes. He wasn't sure yet how they would settle within his soul. He was sure they would settle this time, though.

He would not take these accusations for the duration of this role as law enforcer. He would not let himself be set up as the devil who caused the undoing of this group.

"I'll keep guard duty with you, Pard." Buck had heard the order through the door that Nathan still held open.

"No." The blunt response from Chris surprised them. "You and Josiah stay here now." Chris's order would brook no defiance and he reinforced it with his eyes as he met those of Wilmington. "I'll relieve you and take the night watch with Ezra when he gets back. Vin and JD can take over in the morning."

"Would it matter if I preferred to take Mr. Wilmington up on his offer of partnership?"

"I would prefer to have at least one responsible person on each shift!" Larabee barked back. What he had meant is that he wanted one person on each shift who would react with their minds not their hearts. He didn't know how to say it that way.

Nathan registered how easy it was to leave him out of the equation; how easy it was to become odd man out in a group of seven. Especially if you had expressed your opinions and they weren't popular with the ringleaders. Forgetting, or choosing to ignore in the moment that he had taken himself out of the equation by saying he was leaving town, making a choice to see a darker side of the assignments, Nathan turned and was gone.

JD was crushed by what he perceived as an attack on his ability to be a valuable part of this group.

Ezra simply stared at the man as if he had made a comment on the weather. Ezra didn't feel up to standing against that anger. He had never been very successful getting through this level of Larabee's defenses.

The leader of the regulators was angry that the group was at odds. He was angry that he didn't know what had suddenly caused it, didn't know how to fix it, like he didn't know how to fix the words that had just come out so wrong. So he would get angry at what he had identified as the source.

Buck's smile was as good as a poker face. You could never tell what was behind it.

Josiah didn't hide anything. He looked sad and worried. He at least was sure now that the relationships and interactions and protectiveness of the newcomers was bringing out deep, perhaps mirror-image emotions from somewhere for him and his comrades. They weren't reacting well, the well spring of unacknowledged similarities was evolving too fast. He didn't know what to do about it. He had a sense it would not end well at all.

Chris saw something surprising in the tracker's eyes; something he couldn't quite recognize and didn't want to analyze and didn't want to answer to.

The dangerous gunslinger strode across the floor and disappeared into the fog. With a deep breath and sympathetic look to Ezra, the tracker left as well, but, surprisingly, he went the opposite direction from his friend. 


	4. Chapter 5

\+ 7+ 7+7 + 7+ 7+ +

Ezra responded to the soft rap at his door as if it were a dare. He didn't want to face whoever was there but, by damn, they wouldn't see him back down.

He pulled the door open with just that conviction and was surprised to see JD move backwards half a step in response. When the silence seemed to drag itself out to an abusive length, Standish finally asked, "Is there something I can do for you, Mr. Dunne?"

"I've been lookin' for you. The bath house...Around...You know." The younger man was playing with his hat in both hands. He watched his own hands move around the brim as if using them to avoid eye contact.

"I thought it would be in everyone's best interest to take care of my personal hygiene in my own room."

"Damn it, Ezra, those men could have come back to the saloon. You would have had to walk right through them to get here."

"They weren't. I didn't," he responded bluntly.

As the silence between the two grew again, it gave way to the sounds from the saloon below. Standish noticed the bar didn't sound so crowded now. But it did sound like everyone had forgotten the tragedy that occurred earlier.

The gambler finished buttoning his frilled white shirt, even the cuffs. Still the silence hung there, but the boy gave no sign as to why he had knocked. "Perhaps we can continue this titillating conversation inside? While I proceed to dress?"

"Sure." The sarcasm was lost on the boy. As usual. And that the boy didn't hear sarcasm, but took the invitation at face value was one of the things that endeared him to the gambler.

Ezra was putting on his vest when he realized the boy's eyes were focused on the bloody shirt and jacket tossed haphazardly in a corner. "Mr. Dunne?" He waited until the big brown eyes met his. "Why are you here?"

"To make sure you're okay." His voice sounded like he was surprised his friend had to ask that question. "Oh, and Nathan gave me this on his way out of town." The boy produced a smallish amber bottle that until then had been hidden by his derby. "He says you gotta clean those cuts with that or worry about them gettin' infected." He shoved it forward.

Ezra took the bottle and stared at it as if trying to divine some answers there.

"Ezra?" The voice was smaller now. The tone had the older man looking up in curiosity. "What happened with that fella's brothers?" Then he rushed out the next words, "I - I ain't thinkin' you done anything wrong. I just wondered..."

"An infinitely fair question, Mr. Dunne." In truth he was proud of the young man for asking. "That lad's oldest brother was cheating at cards," he began as he absently placed the bottle on the dresser and reached for his jacket. "I wasn't participating in the game. I knew the man to be well off in the community. And his family was using the size of their ranch to undermine the other ranchers. Surprisingly, it went against my sensitivities that he was cheating money from neighbors he was already cheating of their water rights and livelihood."

He stopped in putting on his coat, and the story, to defend what could possibly be seen as hypocrisy. "Mother and I were always careful. The people we duped always met their fate through greed, not desperation."

JD smiled, unhesitatingly accepting the distinction. Ezra sighed. The boy was too trusting. No, that wasn't really true. It was simply that when the youngster trusted, he did so implicitly and he trusted Ezra. The gambler made a mental note to ask JD why later. But for now he didn't want to confuse or embarrass him. Besides he was anxious to get the story out and over with. "I pointed out to the manager of the establishment what was occurring at the table. He watched, saw for himself and called the rancher on his illicit practices. I had gone about my business in other parts of the saloon. The rancher went for his gun. He killed the other player and was turning the gun on the manager when I shot him. I was put in the unenviable position of being forced to defend the manager, a man I barely knew. The other brother present at the time, seeking revenge, shot the manager and myself as we knelt over the fallen men. The manager died. The brother was hanged for the murder." Even JD could tell there was much more to the painful memories. But he wouldn't push for details.

"Gosh, Ezra, why didn't you just say so?"

"No one asked."

"I'm sorry."

The sincerity touched the older man. He wasn't used to the feeling. "You asked, JD," he smiled gratefully. And he realized it did make a difference.

Buck, Josiah and even Vin, who seemed to take his side in this most recent confrontation, sided with him right or wrong. The youngest of the group had asked, heard the facts, and judged him innocent based on the details. It made a difference.

By this time the gambler had his vest, coat and gun belt settled exactly as he preferred. He tested his derringer to be sure it was unencumbered by his sleeve and reset it. He put a hand on the door to open it for them to leave.

"Wait, you have to take care of those cuts." JD grabbed the forgotten bottle from the dresser and held it out. Ezra glanced in the mirror, studied the cuts again and finally took the disinfectant. JD grabbed a hand towel and pushed it toward Ezra encouragingly.

\+ 7+7 +7 +7 +7 + 7+

Vin stared out at the stars, which were barely affected by the low street fires, but partially obscured by the fog that seemed to be getting stronger; heavier in the night. He felt Chris walk up behind him.

"You have the air of a man thinkin' on makin' a move," the gunslinger spoke through teeth clenched tightly around a thin cigar.

"I've killed men, Chris. I've taken men in for bounty like a rancher'd pay for coyotes."

Larabee waited to see where this was going. "I'm wanted for murder."

"You were framed."

"For Eli Joe. Think on the kind of man I must be, the things I've done." There was a silence before he continued. "Why do you judge Ezra and not me?"

"You've been judged, we've all been judged."

"The day a part of my past rides into town you don't like, will you be there to cover my back? Will Nathan?"

"You shouldn't even have to ask that." The question made Larabee surprisingly angry.

"Neither should Ezra," Vin said sadly. He was so much like Ezra, wanting to be judged by who he was now, who he was trying to become, not who he had been. Thank God the part of his past hadn't caught up with him that would open the pages of his life as they had the gambler's.

Nathan would be no more accepting of him. He was sure of it. And it didn't seem fair that, because he and Larabee were so alike, and the deaths they had caused were in a similar vein, that the gunman was more tolerant of them.

The tracker was confident they had both caused more deaths than their southern partner, and probably, on too many occasions, with less provocation.

"You've got used to pushin' people away, Chris. Do you even know you're doin' it anymore?"

The former bounty hunter waited, but he could tell his best friend wasn't going to answer.

"You need to figure out if you really want 'em leavin' and how you'll feel when they're gone. Nathan needs to think on it, too." The thought crossed his mind that he might lose his friend by saying things the man didn't want to hear. But he had the feeling he would lose the man he respected and admired and cared for more than he thought was possible if he allowed the man to make the mistake of pushing the others away.

No, Vin didn't want to say any more. He didn't like situations where he had to think so carefully about what he was about to say. The facts, the importance of a thing should let the words come natural and just be there. But then, it'd been a long time since he'd had this much to lose. Maybe that was the answer - to talk about himself instead of the others. "Ain't never had anyone to push away. Always lost everyone".

He could feel Larabee's eyes on him and the sympathy there. He didn't want that. So talking about himself wouldn't work. He forced himself to nudge forward with a more personal observation regarding his moody friend. "You push Ezra too hard, he's gonna bolt."

The tracker continued to stare toward the free spaces beyond town as Larabee puffed on the small cigar and ignored him. "Buck's still thinkin' to leave the minute he thinks that's what's best for you."

"Has he said something to you?" At last, a reaction from the gunfighter.

"Not the question. Question is why he hasn't said anything to you."

For the first time Tanner's succinct conversation irritated the other man. "Are we talkin' about you or Ezra or Buck?" Larabee snarled because the one-sided conversation was making him uncomfortable.

"Figure we're talkin' about you, Cowboy."

Larabee wanted to ask his friend what he knew; what he had seen.

Why was Buck always walking away lately?

Why did Ezra defy him?

But he didn't, as if not giving voice to the fact that he cared would keep him from losing anything he cared about.

The silence lingered between them. The comfort level in the silence that was between them dissipated much more quickly than usual. Larabee wasn't going to be able to come up with an answer.

The tracker breathed a deep sigh. "I'm takin' up a post." He nodded toward the roof of an abandoned building between them and the saloon where he planned to keep watch. "Don't rightly think this is over."

Chris watched the frontiersman's moves as he gracefully made his way across the street. Chris couldn't help but wonder what his friend thought wasn't over. He hoped it was the trouble with the outsiders... not something more personal. But he didn't ask.

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Buck pulled the long guns and pistols from where they were secured on the wall and dragged out the cleaning supplies. Josiah watched the confident, experienced hands tear down the first rifle. He suspected the guns were getting this detailed care so the man could avoid eye contact and conversation.

Silence was an art form. And sometimes the silence between two men could gauge the depth of their friendship. But Josiah was pretty sure this was not a healthy quiet that had settled over the jail. It had the heavy feeling of a church just before the beginning of a funeral; the mourning of a great loss.

"I think sometimes, on the men the Judge threw together to do this job," Josiah began casually as he wandered over to the coffee on the pot-bellied stove and poured them each a cup, "Wonder if we have anything in common."

He didn't get a response. Buck ran the long cleaning rod down the barrel of the rifle and scoured it with the bristle wire brush on the end.

"Independent," Josiah volunteered his findings. "We all are. Had to be to survive. And proud of it. I think sometimes we lash out at the ones we think we could trust the most. Because that kind of trust takes away a little of that independence. We're afraid it takes away one of the best parts of ourselves. But if we fight through it, we'll come out stronger on the other side." There was no response. "What do you think, Buck?"

Buck looked at him. Josiah could see the thoughts behind the eyes. This man had dropped the clown face a moment ago to say what he believed; to defend a friend and he had been slapped down by another friend. He was trying to decide if he was ready to get hit again.

Finally, the words did come. "I think that's Sunday-go-to-preachin' bullshit." There was no anger in his tone, only sad facts. "Either you wish it were true or you're saying what you think will keep the whole congregation together."

Keep the congregation together? Josiah suddenly realized this was more serious than he had feared.

"It's easy to use words like that when you're one of the ones everyone always thinks is right." Buck added.

Josiah sat very still. If he laughed now, the big barrel laugh that was welling up inside him, Buck would never understand. He? Josiah Sanchez? One of the ones people listened to? Oh, they might let him listen to them, like it's a confession, but did they ever heed his good advice?

His thoughts were interrupted and it suddenly became very easy not to laugh when the older of the prisoners called out from behind the bar's of his cell, "We don't got much to worry about, Kyte. These guys are gonna kill each other. Big brother Jason'll only have to come in and clean up after."

"You think Nathan's right? The things he says about Ezra?" Josiah leaned forward and asked in a low voice. This wasn't a conversation for strangers.

He thought the other man wouldn't answer, but finally, the words came out equally slow and low. "I think Nathan sees what Ezra lets him see. And if Nathan won't take the time to look beyond that, Ezra thinks to hell with him." Wilmington's hands easily replaced the bristled wire brush with an oiled cotton swatch and continued to clean the rifle.

"Why would someone do that?" Josiah prodded.

"I figure Ezra's found a real thin slip of himself that people may not like, but they tolerate."

"Could you help me out? How would a man find that narrow slip?"

"Think about it. The only time people'd be nice to him as a kid was before they knew what his Ma really did to keep 'em fed. Once the folks knowed she's not the school marm or married and respectable and all, they got spit on and told they weren't fit to walk the streets."

Buck stopped and chanced a glance at the older man. He was expecting a look of disgust or indignation on behalf of Jackson. What he saw were two blue eyes giving credence to everything he said, but more than that... Buck Wilmington had spent many years seeing the wildness and leeriness of the animal kingdom reflected in the eyes of Chris Larabee and the men they would ride with and go up against. He had forgotten that it was also the animal kingdom, in the form of that stray mutt he'd taken up with as a kid, that had taught him what real friends were like. That dog didn't judge, was glad to be with him, and chose him over everyone else in the town to be his friend.

After seeing the wolves and big cats staring back at him all these years, it felt so good to recognize that dog's loyalty in Josiah's eyes just now. He hoped the world-wise man wouldn't resent it if he ever found out he'd been compared to a dog. He thought, maybe, ole Josiah would understand what an honor the likening was.

The feelings helped him continue in his defense of their southern friend. "No kids would be allowed to play with him. How's he supposed to know how to get along with others now that he's grown? But come something bad happen? Well, I reckon that would all be his fault, Josiah, a fight... something comes up stolen... 'that whore's boy must've done it.' 'No father to make him grow tall'... 'his Ma sure ain't the one to teach him right from wrong,' they'd say. 'How can he learn to be a man?'"

Buck jammed the long cleaning rod down in the muzzle. "Ezra don't think it, but he's probably lucky his Ma kept movin'. Only way he turned out as good as he did."

He pulled the rod out of the barrel and met Josiah's eyes again. "I think he did turn out pretty good, Josiah, I know he tries."

Josiah's heart was bleeding for the ghost of a five-year-old boy who sat in man's form and cleaned the guns, ready to defend his friend. "I think he turned out right fine, Buck."

Josiah almost felt guilty with the insight he was getting. As clearly as he saw that Buck was relaying his own childhood, he also knew the friend before him didn't realize it. He truly thought he was talking about Ezra.

As much as Josiah knew he was in a private place, one he had snuck into and not been invited, Josiah felt he had to get some more information that might never come along again. He was sincere in his determination to use the information to help his friend. "What about Chris? Why does Ezra put up with the things he says?"

"The things Chris says are true. Bull's eye straight on target. But he don't care. He calls you on it, says don't let it happen again, and lets you ride with him anyway. Larabee will accept any man for who he's been while they've known each other. He don't care about their past."

"I don't see Larabee cutting Ezra that much slack, Buck." Josiah was seeing Ezra in Buck's descriptions as clearly as he saw the man in front of him, and was thankful for the insight into both of them.

"Ezra left that first time we rode together. He didn't know how much harm it could do. But we almost got killed. JD ,.. Vin... Chris could've lost 'em."

There were some memories Buck had to fight down, but at last, as he lay the first cleaned gun aside, he continued with infinite regret, "The only thing you can do to lose Larabee's favor is to hurt... or kill .. someone he really loves."

The gunfighter grabbed another gun and began cleaning it.

The room was really too close. Josiah thought he really needed air. His heart was brimming over and he knew he shouldn't show it. But he was about to rip that gun out of the younger man's hand, pin him to the wall and talk until that five-year-old kid knew that he didn't fall out of Larabee's favor with Sarah and Adam's death, that he'd found men who were proud to walk the street with him, and who thought his Ma did one hellacious good job of raising him.

And nothing but the rapid-fire gunshots and worried shouts from outside the door could have stopped him.

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	5. Chapter 6

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Ezra and JD were coming back from the saloon. It didn't surprise Vin that JD wasn't resting up for his watch, but he was pleasantly surprised that the young man had tracked Standish down. Even more, he was glad to see the gambler hadn't run the boy off.

Vin, from his vantage point on the roof of an empty general store, watched his friends move across the street. With each step closer to the jail the gambler lost more enthusiasm and became more nervous. His mind seemed to be somewhere else.

Vin decided that he was going down and insist that he take the next watch with Ezra. He hoped he knew Larabee well enough to know that the somber loner would be feeling guilty by now. At least guilty enough not to bite JD's head off for no reason if they shared a turn in the jail.

Standish, unfortunately, would be fair game for their leader for the many reasons which had been evolving and spiraling out of control since the night began; perhaps the least of which were the accusations by the two brothers.

Vin wasn't going to let any more damage be done until this external threat was over. Then the healing of internal damage could begin.

By focusing his eyes on Ezra, the experience of the bounty hunter allowed him to use his peripheral vision to keep check on the rest of the street. He didn't quite understand it, but initially at least, it wasn't focusing on a source, but letting his side vision register a movement or that something was not right which often allowed him his first sense of danger.

That's what happened now.

An unnatural movement drew his focus. His vision adjust that direction. Then he saw it, rounded shapes inconsistent with the usually sharp angles that made up the side of a building. Another slight movement. A rifle barrel slid out of the darkness. "Ezra!"

Ezra grabbed the boy beside him and shoved him to the ground with all the confidence in the world that the tracker's voice held an immediate warning. It was only then that he himself dodged to safety. Two gunshots disrupted the night. A bullet whizzed past Standish's ear as he hit the dirt.

Vin's cover shot followed by an audible grunt said that Vin's aim had been the more accurate of the two. It deflected the aim of the sniper and saved his southern friend.

Buck burst from the jail. He was shouting for JD.

Chris ran from the bar.

Josiah moved a few paces out onto the street but stayed close enough to deflect any initial attack on the jail if this all turned out to be a diversion.

Buck grabbed JD by the scruff of the neck, pulled him to his feet and, gun ready, split his attention between the dark, foggy street and checking the kid for injuries.

"I'm alright. Buck, I'm fine," the youngest of the seven insisted as he drew his own gun and looked for a target.

Buck shoved JD toward the safety of the jail. "Go help Josiah guard the prisoners."

While he knew the order was designed to get him behind the safety of the walls, JD also knew with his maturing experience that it was sound strategy. So he ran quickly to the water trough outside the building and covered the others.

"Buck! Now you!" He called as soon as he was safe. "Chris! Ezra! We've got your cover." Please, please, God, please, make them come over here, too, where it's safe.

In order to get range with his mare's leg, Vin hopped down from the roof of the building to the lower overhang that shaded the boardwalk.

Ezra crabbed over to the cover of some barrels and pulled his gun.

Some lanterns slowly came on where merchants, residing over their businesses, decided to dare a look. Clients stood at the bar entrance and watched.

"Jason Miller!" Larabee roared.

"I want my brother and Mike..."

"They'll stand trial," Larabee said from the middle of the street.

"...and I want that damn murderin' gambler. Two hours, Larabee. I ain't waitin' for no damn judge."

Wilmington's eyes fought the darkness to register any danger before it was too late. Again at Larabee's left, he gritted his teeth and cursed his old friend for not seeking cover to continue this little negotiation. JD was silently cursing them both for the same reason.

A sputtering flare, like a child's sparkler, flew through the air. Ezra saw it, broke cover and ran toward the building Vin was perched on. "Vin! Get back!"

The explosion shook the entire town. The crowd at the saloon flinched back. Inez tried to run into the street, but several of the regulars held her back.

The concussion blast threw Larabee several feet in the air to land hard on his left hip and on top of Wilmington.

The dynamite caught the 2x4 wooden boards that passed as pillars holding up the overhang that shaded the boardwalk over the abandoned building. The faded sign above splintered. The roof lurched with an implosion that threw Tanner to the ground, two stories below, along with the toppling façade and overhang.

Ezra ran in the direction of his friend and what he had recognized as a stick of dynamite, heedless of the danger. The building as it collapsed, bringing Tanner with it, came down on top of the southerner.

The night was quiet but for the settling and creaking of the destroyed building. Dust and the lighter debris still floated to the ground.

The patrons of the saloon were silent but none dared venture out into this confrontation.

"Buck!" JD called again.

JD was already running into the street when the lanky gunfighter called to him, "Stay in the jail, JD!"

One man snaked his way out of an alley and toward the open jail door. A bullet from Josiah's gun sent him scurrying back into the darkness as the tall, solid preacher grabbed JD and fairly slung him back toward the small structure. "Stay put," he ordered and ran into the street.

Mike and Kyte both raised up off of their cots and moved to the front of their cells apprehensively.

The reports from unseen weapons roared through the night but the plunks and thuds of the bullets finding a target were deceptively muted as, for the most part, they bit into the dirt of the street and remnants of the building..

They hit all around Chris and Buck, the most vulnerable, in the middle of the street. One bullet pinged into the ground at Larabee's booted foot and ricocheted off his spur.

Chris and Buck checked each other for injury even as they scrambled, fell, staggered and finally dragged each other toward the three foot stack of what had recently been the abandoned building's sign and porch overhang.

Josiah ran into the street and fired blindly into the darkness, but it had it's effect as the answering shots became more random.

Buck shook Chris' hands off. Chris clapped him on the back and, guns aimed defensively, they and Josiah finally made it behind the ruins under which their friends were buried.

Buck noticed Chris was favoring his left hip. Chris knew that Buck had somehow wrenched his back in the fall. It wasn't enough to stop them from throwing wood panels and timber aside like it was kindling.

Vin and Ezra looked like two of the scattered pieces in a giant child's game of pick up sticks. The planks and lumber on them, under them and stacked up against the men, were the remaining pieces. The object of the game would be to move the right pieces at the right time and not endanger the remaining sticks. Both of the men were as still as the wood.


	6. Chapter 7

As the tension grew, JD realized he was the only one really able to cover the rescue attempt.

Josiah had one gun pointed into the darkness and was using his mammoth strength to throw timbers aside, but Buck and Chris, as was their way, had given up all thoughts of cover or safety to dig out the others.

JD watched the search for his friends helplessly.

They came on Ezra first, as he tried to rise to his hands and knees. He was covered with a fine dusting of dirt and sawdust. He crawled forward into the pile of ruin as if following through on his last coherent thought, which was to get to Tanner.

Chris, kneeling quickly, pulled the gambler roughly around to face him. "Where are you hurt?"

The southern law keeper stared blankly as if his brain was trying to process the question. Then his eyes drifted to where Buck and Josiah were still digging. He made an unconscious move to stand and move that direction. "Don't make yourself a target," Larabee growled.

"Vin! Vin, can you hear me?" Larabee heard Sanchez's desperate question. He saw them pull the unconscious, limp body from the rubble.

"Got him! Got him! Go! Go! Jail, Chris, get inside," Buck ordered.

Without hesitation Larabee grabbed the conman by the arm and, limping himself, dragged the disoriented man toward the jail.

Josiah took Vin's legs, Buck his shoulders, and were only a heartbeat behind the others.

JD moved into the street and fired at muzzle flashes as the unseen shooters took aim again at his friends who left themselves vulnerable to pull in the wounded.

Josiah noticed that the truly lethal shots were coming from a single source in the alley closest to the jail. These shots had started about three feet in front of Chris and Ezra and, even with the movement, were "walking" closer to their targets as the concealed gunman used the dust from each preceding shot to move in on the range of his victims. Two more shots and they would find the helpless red jacket.

"Cover us, boy!" Josiah bellowed. "You kill those two inside if another shot rings out!"

JD was stunned by the venom in the usually gentle man's voice, and he knew he couldn't carry out that order. But then it dawned on him. Jason Miller didn't know he wouldn't carry it out. The youth stood at the open door, one gun pointed into the night, one pointed in the direction of the cells.

Frighteningly, when visions of Buck or Chris falling, bloody, to unseen gunmen forced their way unbidden into his imagination, the young easterner felt more and more sure that he might damn well carry out Josiah's order if the image from his imagination became fact. It must have shown on his face. The bullets stopped.

"Two hours, Larabee," Jason Miller's voice wafted out of the darkness. Apparently he had made his point. Or maybe he knew, should their positions be reversed, and he had the doorway of the jail like that kid with the long black hair, he would immediately kill both men inside if a bullet felled one of his. Maybe something he saw in the boy convinced him he didn't want to risk his brother's life.

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Josiah cradled Vin in his arms as Buck grabbed the keys from the desk. He opened Mike's cell and tossed the keys to JD. JD wondered how his best friend knew he would be there to catch them? He had never even looked up. But maybe that was part of what best friends knew, because JD also knew what he was supposed to do.

He had the other cell door open by the time Buck dragged Mike out and put him in with Kyte. JD slammed that door and locked it as Josiah eased the still unconscious Tanner onto the recently vacated cot.

Larabee lowered Ezra into the chair behind the desk and kept a close eye on him.

The leader of the seven quickly tapered down the wicks of all the lamps in the room. The shadows got longer. No reason to make themselves more of a target than necessary. He carried one lamp into the cell where Josiah was looking to Vin's injuries. "How is he?"

"Couple of knots on his head, scraps and bruises. If he'd wake up, you'd think he landed on his feet like a cat."

"I'll settle for him having the nine lives of a cat," Buck drawled tiredly.

Mike and Kyte watched from their cell. The cohesiveness of the group was in direct contrast to what they had seen earlier.

"What about Ezra?" Buck asked as he looked at his oldest friend.

"Same thing. Bruises and scrapes," their leader said as he turned to the con man, "What kind of damn fool, stupid stunt was that? Running toward a stick of dynamite?"

"Mr. Larabee, I assure you..." Ezra began to stand and move toward Tanner in the extra cell. "Don't assure me! And stay away from that window. Are you trying to make yourself a target?" Chris shoved Ezra back into the chair behind the desk as he himself strode across the window to Tanner's cot.

Buck stepped out of the small space to give his old friend room and moved casually to the gambler's side. "He was worried about you, Pard," Buck smiled. He tried to stretch the muscles in his back into alignment.

"I'll have to bow to your experience in translating the different inflections of our illustrious leader's anger."

"You do that," Buck smiled. "How are you, really?"

"Surprisingly well, Buck." It was a lie, but Standish thought he pulled it off very well.

"Well, it won't last." Buck's smile got a little wider as he took in the growing bruises down the southerner's neck and peeking out from the rents in his clothes. "You're gonna be one sore puppy in the mornin'."

"What are we gonna do?" JD asked, his eyes focused on Buck for an answer.

"We're open to suggestions," his best friend replied honestly.

Silence took over the room.

"How's Vin?" He finally asked again of Josiah.

"I can't tell why he won't wake up." Josiah didn't hide the concern in his voice as he gently patted the tracker's face to get a reaction.

The worried look on Chris' face spoke to Wilmington of pent up frustration waiting to explode.

"Could... what if we let these two go?" JD offered. "We could go after 'em later when Vin's..."

"Think, boy," Larabee growled. "Only thing keepin' that son of a bitch from coming through us to get to Ezra is those two being in here."

JD cowed under the irate tone and ducked his head. His long bangs hid his eyes.

"Don't start takin' it out on the boy, Chris."

Larabee pulled himself up to his full height and strode face to face with his old friend. Wilmington didn't flinch.

Before they could go at each other, Ezra broke in, "Perhaps I could take our allotted two hours and lead the ruffians away from town."

"No," Buck responded.

"They'd tear this town down to make sure we weren't hidin' you," the duster clad gunfighter said it with such insight into how alike he was with the man leading the group outside, that Ezra looked down to avoid meeting his eyes.

"Hey, Pard, ain't nothing to it. We'll figure something out. Like Chris said, ain't none of us ever facin' our pasts alone again." Buck's enthusiasm was sincere.

"I should have known I'd regret it," Larabee muttered, almost to himself. Standish couldn't hide the surprised hurt the words brought forth.

"Now damn it, Chris, not everybody's used to you poppin' off like that and it not meanin' anything." The words were irritated and focused on the embittered man before him, but they appeared to be meant for the gambler.

"What is it lately? Can't the man speak for himself? Why are you always defending him?" Somewhere niggling the back of the gunslinger's mind was the thought that Wilmington usually defended Larabee's actions and damn sure hadn't started chastising him for things he said until they joined up with Standish and the others. It was only a shadow of a thought, disquieting and provoking on top of the situation they found themselves in.

"Mr. Wilmington, there is nothing to defend here." It sounded like Ezra was acknowledging his culpability.

Once again Buck and Chris were at each other. Ezra, and his part in the situation, becoming an afterthought. "Don't seem fair, Chris, always having to read into or out of what you say - how you say it. Trying to figure out why you're so damn pissed off at us all the time."

"Shut up, Wilmington."

"There's seven men out there lookin' to kill us. You reckon you could direct some of that meanness toward them?"

"That's more like it." Mike beamed as Chris and Buck moved in on each other.

JD got between the two. "Ezra, Ezra, it was self defense. Tell 'em."

Buck and Chris looked toward the gambler for an answer.

Ezra was feeling dizzy and nauseous. He didn't want to take away from the attention Vin needed. He had been able to follow the goings on, but mostly by emotional voltage as it was given off in the room. The actual words had only feathered in and out of his consciousness.

Tanner's unconscious state, Larabee saying he regretted something, him and Buck shouting again, then the boy calling to him. He looked up with owlish round eyes, but didn't reply.

Buck recognized that his friend wasn't as uninjured as he'd made out and went to check his eyes.

When it was clear Standish wasn't going to reply, JD turned pleadingly to Larabee, "Ezra shot one brother in self-defense. One he caught cheating at cards."

"That's a lie!" It was the first thing Kyte had said all night.

"The second brother got hung for shooting Ezra and killing the saloon tender," JD's voice pleaded for his hero to listen to him; to believe him.

Ezra's glazed eyes showed Larabee enough awareness for him to see the defiance and verification of the boy's words. "Why didn't you say so?" He demanded.

"You didn't ask," JD answered for the conman by quoting what he had been told earlier. And it was just as poignant for the repeating and the circumstances.

"Self-defense." Buck straightened up from where he had been tending Standish. "Sort of like shootin' some kid down in the street cause he thinks he's fast and calls you out." Buck was headed toward Larabee again.

Josiah, still tending Vin, bowed his head at the mens' interaction, but before he could decide whether to intercede or not, Tanner moaned softly and drew the preacher's attention back to the injured man.

As the lanky cowboy strode forward, a single gunshot rang out and shattered the glass between the bars. Larabee tackled Wilmington who had been targeted as he passed in front of the window.

"Are you alright?" Larabee asked. As usual it sounded angry. Buck knew despite the angry words, his friend was distressed at the close call. Some of the anger drained out of both of them.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm good."

There was silence for an extended breath. And Ezra could tell it wasn't good. Nothing was right. They were at odds with each other when they needed more than ever to work together. And somehow, Standish understood that it was his fault. But he couldn't remember what he'd done. His head had started to pound. If it would stop maybe things would start to make sense.

"JD," Wilmington spoke as if to change the subject. "I want you to ride out and find Nathan. Get him back here to check on Vin."

"But Buck, two hours..."

"That's pure bluff," his older friend lied. "C'mon, son, we'll get you off and you'll be back before you miss anything," Buck offered him a good imitation of his usual smile.

JD looked questioningly to Chris who nodded encouragement.

Clearly unsure of the situation, the boy nevertheless trusted his hero and best friend to make the best strategic decisions and allowed himself to be quietly ushered out the back door by the taller man.

Before he followed the boy out, the lanky gunfighter turned back to his friend, "Aw, hell, Chris." It was an apology from Buck, but also much more. Then he followed after their youngest and allowed the darkness to swallow him up.

"Mr. Larabee," Ezra asked curiously, "Is it truly in that boy's best interest to let him try to ride out past those ruffians?"

"In two hours they'll start to use the dynamite on the rest of the town. Draw us out. They're willing to blast the town... to use the night .. and us having to protect the jail and the prisoners..." Chris let the options hang. He explained Buck's thoughts as if he had read his old friend's mind. "... somebody'll have to ride it out in here with Vin. The odds aren't good. If Buck wants to get the boy out of this one, I don't think one gun would make that much difference this time."

"And you're hoping that this way Mr. Wilmington will not be distracted by watching out for that young man."

Larabee wasn't willing to admit this part, or that he was glad the boy would be safe when the two hours were up. He glanced at Josiah, who shook his head "no" to the unvoiced question of whether or not Vin had regained consciousness.

With an indifference that could have been associated with waiting out a summer storm instead of possibly the last two hours of his life, Larabee slid into the chair behind the desk Standish had recently vacated. He began to reassemble the gun Buck had broken down before the gunfight broke out.

Ezra cautiously worked his way past the shattered window to lean his pounding head against the bars and watch Sanchez gently tend to the former bounty hunter's scalp wounds; trying to gently coax him back to awareness.

The preacher looked up and tossed the gambler a supportive smile. They were in this together. But the smile held no false encouragement. They would be in for a hell of a fight.

The southern gentleman looked across to the boy and the man in the locked cell. Jason Miller and the men who followed him had a united front and a united cause. They were fighting for people they cared about. Such a bond added to their strength.

What had Larabee said? He had promised that none of them would ever face their past alone again? He had made the promise to Ezra himself. And tonight he had all but admitted that he had lived to regret that promise. But the dark gunslinger was a man of honor. He would die to keep his word despite any regrets.

Ezra scrunched his eyes closed against the pain which was becoming more and more of a constant in his head. He walked casually over to their proud leader. "Mr. Tanner's awake. He's asking for you."

Encouraged, relieved, the other man made his way across the darkened room. The duster played around his lean legs as he moved into the open cell. "Josiah?" He asked gently as he leaned forward to check on the tracker himself.

"No change, Chris. He still hasn't come to."

The frown of confusion had barely had time to form on Larabee's face when he heard the clang of metal against metal as the door swung shut behind him. He spun and was at the bars instantly, but not fast enough to catch the enigmatic gambler who was backing away from them with the keys in his hand. "Ezra, what the hell..."

Standish seemed not to hear as he casually removed his holster. "Mr. Miller," He spoke to the young man without looking up from working the buckle on his belt, "Is your brother a man of his word?"

"Ezra, open the damn door!" Larabee demanded. It was one of the few times, that if Standish had been listening, he would have heard dread in the voice as much as anger. Josiah had moved to the bars beside their leader. Kyte, also standing in his cell, seemed confused.

The gambler continued. "If the three of us walk out of here and join him, will he leave the town unscathed?"

Kyte nodded.

"And the peacekeepers?"

"Ezra damn it to hell, open this door!" Larabee hissed. His white knuckled grip on the bars before him belied the fact that he was trying to keep a calm tone. Anger, he knew, would only incite the southerner.

"Jason don't want to hurt nobody," The boy vowed sincerely. "He only wants to see justice done."

"Aw yes, justice," Ezra smirked as he removed the derringer rigging from his arm. "Highly overrated concept."

"Ezra, son, please, you don't have to..," Josiah's voice was pleading, but it seemed to waft in and out as Ezra tried to keep his balance. He felt drowsy, but he had to stay awake long enough to protect the others.

Mike moved greedily to the bars of his cell. He was ready to grab the keys if this idiot was foolish enough to give him the chance.

But he didn't have to.

Ezra opened the door and swung it wide. "Gentlemen..." Mike shoved past him, grabbed a couple of guns and then grabbed Ezra by the arm.

"Ezra!" Anger and fear and grief seemed to weigh Larabee down. He was almost holding himself up by the death grip he had on the bars.

Ezra met their eyes and his poker face was in place. "I don't like to be indebted, Mr. Larabee."

The gunslinger tried to stare into Ezra's soul; to tell him, demand of him to put his trust in the group and not go out on his own. But then the former prisoners stepped out the door, Ezra closed it gently and they were gone. "Ezra!" Larabee called. His only answer was three sets of boots moving away from the jail.

Josiah bowed his head and slammed one meaty fist against the stone wall.


	7. Chapter 8

Ezra met their eyes and his poker face was in place. "I don't like to be indebted, Mr. Larabee."

The gunslinger tried to stare into Ezra's soul; to tell him, demand of him to put his trust in the group and not go out on his own. But then the former prisoners stepped out the door, Ezra closed it gently and they were gone.

"Ezra!" Larabee called. His only answer was three sets of boots moving away from the jail.

Josiah bowed his head and slammed one meaty fist against the stone wall.

Then they heard it. Footfalls approaching from the direction of the livery. Chris recognized the cadence. "Buck," he whispered, almost to himself. He must have gotten the boy off and was coming back.

"Buck!" He shouted as the bootsteps stopped just short of the door.

But at the same time and drowning out his own voice, he heard Buck's confused, "Ezra?"

There was a silence.

Josiah, started to call out, but before he could, he heard, "Ezra!" And then the heavy sound of a single pair of boots running up the street. "Ezra!" Buck bellowed again.

"Buck!" Larabee barked in a voice not to be ignored... if it had been heard. It was drowned out as the night erupted in gunfire that sounded like firecrackers on the Fourth of July and the sound of horses racing out of town.

"Buck!" He shook the bars as if he could pull them from the jail's foundation.

Then, as quickly as the noise began, it ended. There was silence. Josiah leaned his back against the cool wall of the cell and slid down to the floor and put his head in his hands.

In one of those inexplicable moments when tragedy heightens the senses, Sanchez could smell the smoke from the street fires and he knew the fog that had grown heavier all night had finally doused the flames. Soon, the smoke that promised warmth and security in a town he called home would be gone. The fog had won.

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JD knew part of the reason he was sent after Nathan was to get him out of harm's way. He didn't know whether to resent the protectiveness or to worry that it meant they still didn't think he could be trusted in a showdown. And after what Chris had said... but Vin needed help. Ezra and Buck and Chris could stand being checked out as well.

Going after their healer was something that needed to be done. And the truth was, JD had been glad to get out of town. The tension that had lately become a constant undercurrent in how the seven got along was beginning to drain the young man. He couldn't remember exactly when it started, but it wouldn't dissipate. He was worried that one wrong word would crumble the team. And the rest of the men seemed to take turns trying to find just that word.

JD didn't feel like he had the right to get mad at the others. They were older, had seen more; had suffered through more. He realized he only had glimpses of the hidden pasts of these loners who had somehow bonded together. They didn't talk about themselves.

No, he didn't give himself the right to show his temper when they kept him out of the middle of the action, questioned his experience or made noises that to him sounded like they thought he couldn't cut it. After all, sometimes he questioned himself. But he found it harder and harder to hold his tongue when the men he admired so sniped at each other.

No matter how he fought it, JD was mad at Nathan. He hadn't given Ezra a chance to explain. That wasn't the way friends should act. It was just that simple. And the things he had said to Buck? Those things were mean and hurtful and had nothing to do with the fact that men were trying to kill Ezra.

But beyond all the rest, Buck and Ezra were JD's friends. They were the most likely to stand up for him or deflect attention when Chris directed one of his dark moods in the boy's direction. They were always aware of his presence, protective but encouraging. They didn't make him feel like a liability. So if they were willing to defend him, when was he going to be old enough or proven enough or comfortable enough with his place in the seven to return the favor?

The rhythm of his horse's hooves helped the young easterner tick off what he was going to say when he found Nathan. He practiced a speech that got more and more hurtful as he worked the words around just so. He wanted to see the same hurt and disappointment at a verbal attack on Jackson's face that he had seen on Ezra's and Buck's.

He was so lost in thought that he barely noticed the lone rider that approached him on the hard packed road. He recognized the riding posture before the dark night let him make out any features.

It was Nathan. He had turned around and was already coming back on his own. A bit of JD's anger died off at the realization.

Then they met, and as the youngest of the seven relayed events to the ex-slave, he became certain he would never use the speech he had so carefully prepared. It was in the sad brown eyes, the furrowed brow, and some almost imperceptible aura of regret that surrounded their seventh man as he listened to the events that had unfolded after he had left.

He had left. And as he studied the other man and finished his tale, JD knew there was nothing he could say that the healer hadn't already said to himself.

But they were on their way back to town now. Nathan would apologize with actions if not with words. JD allowed himself a slight smile. Everything would be fine.

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Chris Larabee saw the end play out in his mind. Buck would try to get to Ezra as fast as he could with no regards to cover.

Standish, for his part, when he realized Wilmington was placing himself in danger, would have tried some damn fool desperate act to distract the nine men.

Nine men.

Some of those men were trail hands but at least five of them had looked to be plenty gun savvy. That Mike, Jason and probably Red had made their way with a gun at least sometime in their lives was obvious.

Ezra hadn't even had a gun.

Larabee'd seen it before, the way a man would seem to dance backwards when multiple gunshots riddled his body. Then he would collapse like the marionette's strings had been cut at last.

And the blood, the nightmare blood. It would be bright red against Standish's saloon-protected complexion; a little darker against the sun-bronzed skin of his oldest friend.

One bullet would have frayed a deck of cards in the gambler's vest pocket and littered them around his body as it lay there motionless in the street. Sea green eyes, would be frozen unseeing on the ace of spades... no, they would have ended up on the seven of spades, tattered where many, too many, of the pips were missing.

And Buck's eyes that could turn almost black, like an angered bobcat when riled, would forever be that gentle midnight blue that bespoke of loyalty and friendship to the end.

Damn it, Buck. I told you that kind of loyalty would get you killed in the end! Larabee ranted silently to himself. But I was supposed to be there. He raged with a sadness he thought he was no longer capable of. At the end,, I was supposed to be there.

Larabee was supporting his entire weight with the grip he had on the cell bars. He had killed them, by pushing them away because they were weaving themselves so completely into what made Chris Larabee the man he was. And now he had allowed the entwined friendships to be torn from him not 100 yards away. And he was startled and anguished to feel how much of a soul he still had that could be ripped away with them.

His grip gave slightly on the cell bars. His knees sagged with emotions he didn't know how to give voice to. "NOOOO!" He screamed his denial, but wasn't aware of the sound. His whole self was shutting down to the sentiment that had let him get attached and feel this sort of loss again. Never again. Never again. If I live through this, never again.

Josiah Sanchez held his head in his hands. For the moment it was too heavy without the support. The nurturing back of his mind registered that Vin had moved slightly in reaction to the anguish in his best friend's voice. It was as if the tracker sensed that he was losing something priceless and was trying to rouse himself enough to grab hold and try to keep it. Don't wake up yet, son. Sanchez caught himself praying. Let me take care of your friend first.

It wasn't that Josiah wouldn't miss his friends. But in many ways, he had long ago accomplished what Larabee was still struggling to attain.

Josiah was much better at distancing himself from feelings when it came to other people. But then, he'd had more years than Larabee to perfect the emotional distancing, and truth be told, many more agonizing losses.

The disillusioned dreamer tried to tell himself all of this when, in truth, the pain was crippling and would only get worse once the shock wore off, or once JD rode back in... God, please don't let him be the first one to come on the bodies .. and Nathan, how it would eat at him that he could never make amends. Josiah fought back his own sense of loss by empathizing with the others

More running steps. This time coming toward the jail. Larabee was oblivious. Josiah pulled his pistol on the off chance that Jason Miller had more vengeance in him or thought to dispose of any witnesses.

"Chris!" The familiar voice came from outside the door. And the holy man suddenly realized he wasn't as inured against his friends and their fate as he had tried to convince himself. He stood, almost as if in a euphoric dream, the gun forgotten at his side and waited.

"Josiah!" Buck Wilmington slammed through the jail door. The despair on his face was easily readable. He had been just as certain that his friends were dead as they had been grieving his loss. In his mind, nothing less would explain Ezra's being alone with the Rockin' J cowboys. The despair turned to relief and then as quickly confusion and disappointment as he registered the situation before him.

"Chris?" There was a certain amount of denial in the ladies' man's voice but Josiah could tell he had read the situation with deadly accuracy.

Larabee, on the other hand, was barely allowing himself to believe that he was seeing his old friend alive and safe. He couldn't find his voice.

"Ezra?" The Preacher asked, afraid of the answer.

"I'm goin' after him," Buck stated with a coldness that bode ill for Jason Miller and his men. Josiah was afraid it also held a frigidity toward his oldest friend that the two of them would have a hard time overcoming.

Josiah suspected that with Buck, the one thing that could distance the easy-going gunfighter would be for someone to make him chose between friends. The way Buck held Chris's eyes for the briefest of moments relayed this much and more to the deadly shootist.

Wilmington tossed the heavy key ring toward the cell and didn't stay around to see if Josiah was able to catch it.

As soon as Sanchez opened the door, Larabee was out and grabbing up extra guns. "Take care of Vin 'til the others get here."

"Chris, it's two against nine."

Larabee didn't take the time to say he hoped like hell he had the time and a chance to make those odds three to nine. Instead, he was out the door following Wilmington to the livery.

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Chris caught up to Buck after he already had the saddle blanket on the big gray and was hooking up the rest of the dressings. He walked up to his old friend before going to his own horse. "Are you hurt?" He asked, but got no response. "Buck." He grabbed Buck's arm and turned him so they faced each other. The move angered his friend who jerked out of the grasp. "Are you hurt?" Larabee insisted despite the hostility.

At first Buck was afraid the hired gun was looking for a reason to keep him from riding after Ezra. When he met those troubled green eyes, Wilmington relaxed a fraction because, it surprised him, but he saw that the son-of-a-gun had been afraid for his friends.

"The gunplay..." the blonde continued when the other man relaxed slightly. It was then that Wilmington understood his hardened friend had been attacked most viciously by emotions he thought he had buried.

"Those hotheads celebratin' on their way out of town," Buck explained.

"Ezra?"

"Rode out with 'em." He was asking the question of Larabee, How did it happen?

There was no immediate answer.

The rogue glanced at the gambler's quarter horse waiting patiently in it's stall; a far cry from the rough gaited, long-earred remuda animal they had the gambler on as they rode out of town.

"I didn't mean..." Chris stated, but Wilmington turned from him back to the saddling of his horse.

Buck knew they didn't have time for a discussion that started with those words.

There weren't many people Chris Larabee felt the need to explain himself to. One of them was here, now, and not inclined to listen.

He knew grabbing his usually easy-going friend again was not an option. When Buck turned to gather his reins, the formidable gunslinger put himself between the man and his horse. "We have to talk."

"I hope to hell it ain't too late for that, Chris," Buck replied with a soft, sad sincerity. "If we're gonna have a chance, we better get Ezra back in one piece."

Larabee hesitated for a beat, as if he wanted to say more, but finally thought better of it and moved aside.

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Buck hadn't waited for Larabee to saddle his own black, like it wasn't part of Buck's equation whether Larabee rode with him on this or not.

And that wasn't right. Larabee's presence should always be part of Buck's equation.

Larabee had only now caught up with his friend, and no more words had been spoken.

Their horses almost appeared gaited as they pranced, trying to decipher the mixed signals from their masters. Because, anxious as the gunfighters were to move forward, they were forced to hold back the reins to keep from overrunning the vague trail.

They were following darkness. The moon, barely breaking through the fog, caused the heavy fog to glisten where it had settled over the ground. They trailed the matted strip of land where recently passing horses had displaced and beaten down the moisture and gave them a shadowy trail to follow. It took full concentration to follow the minimal sign.

In that strange way that focusing the conscious mind does, it left the insightful, problem-solving subconscious part of Larabee's intellect open to examine many things without the benefit of the conscious shutting the thoughts down when they became too uncomfortable.

The first thing that wouldn't be denied was the stark, devastating loss that had consumed him when he thought Buck and Ezra were dead.

Even as much as the passing of his wife and son still haunted him and still left the anger and the loneliness, that moment of loss had been neutralized by time, probably because it was too intense to bear in its initial paralyzing state. But he had felt it again tonight.

Then he'd been given a second chance. What was he going to do with it?

Larabee had tried to push these men away to avoid that kind of sorrow. But instead they had shown him how to live past the grief.

They had all suffered losses and pushed on. They had become men it was an honor to know. They never questioned that his grief was so debilitating, but showed him everyday, through their actions, that hate and bitterness and isolation were a coward's way out.

It was no way to honor the memories of those who had died.

It was no way to thank the ones who stood beside him in unquestioning friendship.

It was no way to live.

And as surprised as he was with himself that he did want to survive, finally, after all these years, he was equally surprised to realize that he would fight like a she-cat to keep these men safe and sound.

Chris glanced over at the man riding beside him. Buck appeared to be completely focused on not losing the trail. But so was Larabee. And look at the uncomfortable thoughts that swirled around inside of him.

Chris considered asking Buck where his thoughts were and decided against it. That would have to wait until the two of them could sit and get drunk and talk. This wasn't the time. Buck wouldn't be his distraction against unwanted thoughts this time.

Those thoughts went back to the man they were following. Ezra had been the easiest to push away. Because the gambler expected it.

The man that he thought of by his career - gambler, conman, loner - had just sacrificed himself for the well being of men and a town he had known for a relatively short time. Larabee had been wrong when he simply would not let go of his initial impression of the man.

Larabee knew that correcting that mistake would save his slowly self-healing world. It would make amends with Josiah and Vin. He might see again that little gleam of hero-worship that had gradually faded from JD's eye - to think, even a day ago he had thought he wanted to see it gone... and he could help Nathan as much as Nathan could help him.

And Buck? He glanced again at the man riding beside him. Well, the thing that he knew all too well could tear them apart, because it had in the past, was for a friend or innocent, or God help him, both, to fall because of his anger. He'd just have to convince his friend that he wanted to change.

He was proud to have them as friends... the damn cocky four-flusher, the irritatingly loyal old friend, the painfully straightforward tracker, the haunted and, in truth, sometimes frightening Preacher, the over-enthusiastic kid, and the defensive healer. Not a good trait among them.

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	8. Chapter 9

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Stupid. Asinine. Inexcusable. Ezra Standish was berating himself. What had he been thinking? For the life of him he couldn't imagine now what sequence of events had him on this horse, surrounded by men who wanted him dead. He had a survival instinct that rivaled, well, that rivaled his mother's. Where was it when he needed it?

And instead of figuring a way out of the situation? He was wondering how he got into it in the first place. Alright, Ezra, focus. Nine men, two injured, hands tied behind your back, a disgustingly unfamiliar animal...

It didn't work.

If he wasn't berating himself for putting himself in this position - and in truth, there was no one else he blamed but himself - he kept seeing Vin Tanner unconscious; hearing Buck Wilmington call to him over the sound of gunfire and then the silence; Josiah Sanchez who he himself had locked in a cell with the rabid dog that Larabee would become if Wilmington or Tanner died.

Stop it. He demanded of himself and was again fighting to get his thoughts back on track, steered back toward rescue. No, not rescue. He had to save himself. If he could only concentrate.

And he was trying to focus even as they placed the rough rope over his head and tightened the thirteen-looped noose behind his left ear.

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Josiah was just helping Vin slowly sit up when the door flew open.

Nathan, seeing what he anticipated seeing, headed directly toward the tracker. Riding past the demolished roof and understanding Vin had fallen from that distance, he had expected the worst. He was relieved to see the bounty hunter moving around, though admittedly he was moving slowly.

Vin was pressing on his temples as if it somehow held part of the pain at bay. He was folded over his knees, not yet ready to move too much. Josiah had one big hand feathered out along his back for comfort and support.

The black man dropped to a crouch in front of Tanner, his intelligent eyes guided by experience, already evaluating the other man's condition.

JD, leaving the healing to the man he had ultimate confidence in, noticed something else. "Where's Buck and the others?"

Josiah, tending Vin, bowed his head at the question.

The young man took a step closer. Tanner gingerly turned his head toward Sanchez when the extended silence registered. "Ezra left with Miller's gang before we could stop him."

"What?" JD couldn't comprehend that. Vin tried to sit up straighter.

"Chris and Buck went after him," Josiah continued.

Tanner was trying to stand at the words. Nathan didn't know whether to hold the younger man down or help him up.

Josiah had to leave Vin to Jackson. He himself hurried forward to stop JD from getting out of the room.

"Let go, Josiah. I have to help," the boy shouted as the bigger man grabbed his shoulders and held him from the door.

"JD, we can't -"

"We have to!"

"Chris and Buck left right after it happened. They had a chance of keeping up. There won't be any tracking after this much time has passed. Not in this weather and at night."

JD unwillingly looked toward Tanner. His friend was hurt. He didn't want to play that down. He didn't want to ask. But if anyone could read track it was him.

JD didn't have to ask. Tanner was already trying to get his footing around the vertigo and slight nausea.

"Vin, stop that nonsense," Nathan ordered. "You won't make it out the door."

"Damn it, Nathan..."

"You tell me, man...!" The healer started too loudly. When the others looked surprised, he lowered his voice to continue. The intensity was still there. "Tell me that your sight ain't blurry. Tell me that you could find a tough trail in broad daylight, much less a cloudy night, and I'll back off."

JD held his breath, hoping this once Nathan's diagnosis was wrong.

"Do you think I don't want to go after them?" Nathan's voice was rising again. "Don't you think I wonder if this wouldn't have happened if I'd stayed?" He looked for accusation, almost wanted to see it. All he saw was his own worry reflected back at him.

And there was Tanner's sad, unspoken acknowledgment that he could do nothing tonight.

"I'll go restock my pack and bring you something back for your headache," he said to Vin. His voice echoed the tracker's helplessness.

Damn Josiah thought, angry with himself. Why hadn't I noticed before how often Nathan retreats to his clinic to get away from the others? Was it to give himself time to think before he spoke, did he sometimes simply need to be alone? Or was there something else?

"Why's Nathan mad at us?" JD asked. He shut down on the rest of the thought, how angry he had so recently been with the former slave.

"Nathan's young life was one where he wasn't allowed to be angry."

"Because he was a slave?" JD guessed.

"It's been building up for a long time,"Josiah added with a nod.

"But why's he mad at us, Josiah? We're his friends."

"A child should learn about anger, be taught how to control it or get past it. Nathan was never allowed to learn that. In some ways, all of us are always children. For Nathan, he's trying to learn anger, even believe he is allowed to feel anger and understand who he's angry at."

JD sort of understood. He'd been only recently working the same thing out for himself.

Vin had sat back down, resigned to the fact that he could do no good for his friends tonight, and he was becoming moody because of it. "Anger's never a thing that's controlled, Preacher," he spoke from some experience beyond his years.

Josiah smiled at the insight. Anger, by its very nature was a lack of control. "Maybe the control comes in knowing why you're angry or who you're angry with."

"Is that why Nathan's always gettin' on Ezra?" JD thought he might learn something here and was momentarily distracted from his friends' plight, which he could do nothing about. He also thought if he understood Nathan's anger, he might learn something about his own which was getting harder and harder to control. "Because he reminds him of his past?"

Josiah nodded. "I think that might be a lot of it."

"What about Chris? He's at least as angry as Nathan," Vin asked.

"Don't know enough about his childhood. Maybe it was good. Maybe he didn't need to learn to control that kind of anger. But then, can't imagine what it'd do to a man, so much in love, to have his family taken so young. And fire... son, I hope you never have to know the fear of fire licking at your life."

There was silence in the room for a time, each lost in their own thoughts.

Josiah was proud of the boys. They were learning to be thinkers, watchers of the life around them. Maybe that was part of his reason here, to lead them to great things. They looked so different, the one still in his tweed, citified jacket and derby, the other much more a part of the land. It was going to take both kinds to tame this great country without breaking her spirit. And they both had a fine touch with horses and the wild things. They knew more than they yet understood that they knew. They would be the kind of men to become partners with the land not enslave it.

"Still ain't right, Chris puttin' all his anger on Buck. Buck ain't never been nothin' but a friend to him."

"Buck brings it on himself,"Vin murmured.

"Don't you dare say them dying was Buck's fault!" JD jumped up so fast his chair fell over. He'd show them a reason to be angry.

Vin smirked. Josiah smiled. That was anger that knew where it was coming from and righteously defended a friend.

Taking no offense, Tanner explained himself, "Buck calls Larabee's anger down on himself to keep it from fallin' on us. Reckon he's been doin' it for a while. Reckon he's probably kept 'em both alive doin' it."

"Reckon somebody should point that out to Chris," JD muttered under his breath. He might, someday, be the one to do it.

Yep Josiah grinned wider, That one was learning to direct the anger.

"Why don't Ezra and Buck get mad back?" Vin asked.

"Someday I'm going to write a book about men who bond together as tightly as our seven have." Josiah seemed to change the subject. He noticed Tanner was still embarrassed to admit to the connection. JD was proud of it. It was out of his dime novels. "I won't downplay the friendship, or respect, but for the emotions to run so deep, there has to be a searching inside each of us. An emptiness that might be filled here. And I think it scares us."

Again his two students showed opposite reactions. JD's hackles were raised at the accusation of fear. Vin simply nodded with a far off look in his eye.

"It scares us when we think we ain't gonna find it and it scares us when we think we have found it and it hasn't set all things right."

They were silent again. Then Vin met Josiah's eye. "That didn't answer the last question."

"I haven't done anything but ask you questions, son. I haven't set anything in fact. Your answers are as good as mine,"

Vin started to protest, but the enigmatic preacher stood and was almost out the door before he added, "You best get some rest, the both of you. We've got friends to find in a few hours." And he was gone.

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Ezra appreciated that there was some form of irony at work. He was back at the river where so recently he had fooled himself into believing he was a part of the group of men that protected Four Corners. On that fishing trip he had really felt they wanted him there, enjoyed his company and that he was an equal part of the whole.

But then, nothing could be divided evenly into seven parts, could it?

Logically, this was probably the only place where his captors could find a tree tall enough for a hanging. But he couldn't help but see it as some sort of universal reminder of how and why he'd ended up here.

He had tried to be a part of something.

Well, mankind was a social animal only if you were the alpha male or willing to be subservient. He wasn't willing to follow orders blindly and he most certainly understood now he didn't want the responsibility for others. He was a lone wolf, a creature to be admired for what it was and for what it refused to be. And killed as a threat.

That older Miller lad was rambling on about justice and vengeance as he and his men milled around him. He couldn't quite follow it. The torches the men held were fighting the moisture in the air. Was that the rapids roaring in his ears? Maybe not. Maybe the noose was getting tighter. Maybe he heard his own blood trying to rush through his veins to his brain.

He was afraid the horse he was on, when it bolted, when that Larabee-wannabe slapped it on the rump, wouldn't snap his neck. The horse wasn't tall enough for the drop to do its job. The damn thing wasn't fast enough to let it be over quickly. It wasn't going to be pleasant.

Already the nag inched forward and the pressure on the large vein in his neck - Nathan would know the name of it - was his mind rambling? - anyway, it had his peripheral vision tunneling down to a small pinpoint surrounded by hazy darkness.

Where had he been? What had he been thinking? Rescue? No, not rescue, not now, not ever again. He needed to think how to save himself. And he needed to hurry.

Now if Mr. Tanner, or Mr. Dunne where about to swing from this tree with him? Then there might be a chance of rescue. He wondered what it felt like to be them? To know that hardened, respected men cared whether you lived or died?

Buck - Mr. Wilmington had made him feel that way for a little while. Mssrs Sanchez and Dunne, too. And Tanner. Made it harder in a way, having had a taste of it.

The younger Miller had distanced himself from the events. He was holding the horses in the darkness away from the water. Did that mean something? A sudden chuckle came out as a choking breath. This very well may be the only time men had truly looked up to him and it had to be literally, not figuratively. And they were looking up to him to watch him die.

Porthos, for all of his easygoing ways would never have let the dapper Aramis end up this way. He remembered reading that story when he was very young and buying into Dumas' heroes, their camaraderie, their mutual respect for all their differences; the trust, the dark, foreboding, brooding Athos, naïve d'Artagnan... he had tried to form such an alliance with his comrades.

He'd learned the hard way that those characteristics only existed in literature. Did Mr. Dunne's damnable paperbacks count as fiction? In any case he had learned his lesson and forgotten the accursed book until just now. Was this his life passing before his eyes? If so, it'd better speed it up. And this miserable fog. It was settling on his face. Why was it salty when it ran into his mouth?

One for all and all for one. Yeah right.

He heard the shouts above the river and the roar in his ears. The rope was already so tight around his neck that the pinprick of vision had given way to flashes of light behind his eyes.

He couldn't breathe.

Gunshots.

Horses whinnied and then his bolted. Maybe this wasn't so bad. And then something big and heavy hit him and the noose tightened with the sudden jolt as it was intended.


	9. Chapter 10

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At first Buck thought the bright things he saw were like those Marfa Lights he and Chris had drunkenly chased all one night out in West Texas. The roundish orbs had bobbed and eddied and grown. It seemed like they had been playing chase or tag with the two drunken drifters. The stories of ghosts and spirits had added an edge to the adventure, no doubt about it.

But these lights in the darkness quickly became recognizable as torches. They'd caught up. They'd found them. He and Chris slowed their mounts simultaneously and moved cautiously toward the scene. What he saw made him angry.

Ezra was on the back of that swaybacked mare he'd ridden out of town on. His hands were tied behind him and a noose, which was swung over the lower limb of a 60-year-old pecan tree, was around his neck. This particularly large tree was beside the bank. Part of it's roots were exposed in the water from years of erosion. Ezra would sway almost over the water when the horse came out from under him.

Miller and his men were heckling Buck's friend.

The horse was gradually pulling away from the rowdy mob and it was slowly strangling the southerner.

A shiver of anger ran down Wilmington's spine. He started to ride into the clearing, but a firm hand on his upper arm held him in check.

He turned, but the defiant protest died on his lips when he saw the shrewd, calculating way his partner was studying the scene. Neither one liked what they saw.

But then it was too late.

Jason Miller was rearing back with a stick to slap Ezra's mount on the flank.

Buck pulled the knife from his boot, held it up for Larabee to see, and in that moment, they both knew the plan.

Buck quickly handed his rifle and revolver to the other man who tucked the pistol in his belt and shouldered, one armed, this rifle instead of his own. The hand still on his friend's arm tightened briefly for luck, for contact, for the good times, the old times. Buck nodded.

Larabee went first. Rifle and side arm drawn, he let them both cough as he spurred his black forward and hit the clearing.

He had surprising accuracy. Two men fell, if not to fatal wounds, then to ones that would certainly stop them from firing back.

Buck was only a half a heartbeat behind him as his horse bolted forward with the kick-start.

Larabee's unspoken responsibility was to supply cover fire. And the men were scattering from the rain of bullets as a second horse, a gray ghost, bounded at them from the fog.

Kyte Miller, tending the horses to avoid watching the lynching grabbed for as many reins as he could once he registered they were under attack. The horses shied, reared and bolted in reaction to the sudden movement and gunfire.

Miller's men drew their own weapons as they scrambled for cover. Automatically they aimed at the dark specter firing down on them.

The black horse pirouetted and reared in response to his master's commands.

Larabee rotated, looking for targets; changing from the rifle to his handgun. Finally this gun's hammer, too, fell on an empty chamber. He tossed it aside, drew the one from his waistband and continued the barrage.

Jason Miller put all his rage into the blow he landed on the flank of Ezra's horse.

The animal screamed in terror and sprang forward.

Wilmington rammed his own mount into the swayback and was able to kick out and land a glancing blow on Miller's shoulder. As the vengeance hungry rancher fell to the ground, he was already drawing the sawed off shotgun he carried from it's modified holster.

As Ezra slid off the back of the horse, Buck flung himself from his saddle and wrapped one arm and both legs around his friend. The knife in his right hand sliced through the too taut rope and his forward momentum had both men sailing into the rapids.

Jason's feral roar was followed immediately by the blast of his 20 gauge.

A split second before he hit the water, Buck felt the multiple pellets bite into the right side of his back and the back of his right arm. Instinctively he knew that the pellets that missed him would have found their mark in the space between his back and his arm. The body of the younger man in his arms would have stopped the rest of the shot.

The shotgun blast sent a ripple of fear through Larabee. He spun in the direction of the sound. That damned Miller let lose with the second barrel.

By that time Buck and Ezra were in the water and being washed down stream. In the fog dank darkness, it was only an occasional glimpse of Ezra's white shirt that gave him any idea of the progress his friends were making much too rapidly down the river.

Miller had taken cover behind a boulder. As much as Larabee wanted him dead, he had learned over the recent months that his first obligation must be to his friends. He didn't know if they were wounded or if they were, how badly. If Wilmington had taken the brunt of the blast, Ezra, with his hands tied behind him would be at the mercy of the raging waters.

With an angry shout that rivaled that of Jason Miller, the dark gunfighter took just enough time to ride into the band's horses and scatter most of them before he spurred the black down steam, maneuvering in, out and over trees, roots and boulders, trying to get a glimpse at his friends.

Buck's gray followed after the black as if it were her place in life. "C'mon, Ezra. Damn it, Buck, give me a sign," he whispered to himself and it was almost a prayer.

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Ezra didn't realize he had closed his eyes to meet his end until his expectations of sliding over the rump of the horse, maybe some quick pain and then nothing were confounded by a heavy weight hitting him from an angle.

He knew the rope went taut; knew he left the horse. He felt a deep burning pain in his side. An adrenaline surge put time into slow motion so that he experienced a sense of free fall before he hit the water. Real time took over then and the surprise immediately turned to panic.

He was under water with no air left in his lungs. Between the noose restricting his airway and the weight that hit him forcing the air out from his chest, he needed to breathe. He couldn't help the panic that overtook him.

Hands tied uselessly behind his back, Ezra began to kick and struggle. There was really no sense of up or down in the wet depths and darkness. He could be fighting his way to the riverbed and certain death as easily as he could be kicking toward the surface.

It was a miracle to his way of thinking, when his face finally broke the surface. At the same time a voice in his left ear gasped between involuntarily taking in mouthfuls of water, "Don't... fight me - Ezra - I got... ya ... won't .. let go."

Buck.

So the miracle had been the gift of friendship, more amazing and wondrous than he had first suspected when he had sensed simply that he was still alive. He remembered then to open his eyes.

Maybe all of ten seconds had passed in that lifetime between one breath and another. He became aware of a solid form underneath him and the secure weight of Wilmington's arm across his chest. And maybe, just maybe, that meant they weren't completely at the mercy of the white water rapids. There was some control. Very little, he realized as his head was submerged again. With sudden awareness, he knew this meant his friend was floundering beneath the current as well.

The back of Ezra's mind seemed to register shouts and gunfire, but he was focused on the roar of water around him and how surprisingly powerful it sounded. He was also aware that he could hear his own pulse in his ears because the noose around his neck still threatened his blood circulation and oxygen. "Can't... breath..," he was able to gasp out when he finally again broke the surface of the water. He prayed that his improved situation meant Buck's head was above the surface as well.

There was no verbal response, except a possible drowned out curse, but the arm across his chest worked its way to the noose and the arm at his back grabbed the length of rope that did it's best to tangle them in the debris around them and pull them back down. \

He felt the form beneath him disappear.

As Buck Wilmington tried to loosen the noose from his friend's neck, he immediately felt himself separated from the other man and the loss of all control. He felt his hands slide down the slick hemp line and he was the length of that rope from his friend. With his hands bound, Ezra would not be able to keep his head above water. Wilmington was hard pressed to save himself. And yet, saving himself without saving his friend was not in his make up.

Both of Wilmington's hands had to abandon the rope and grab the gambler's shirt to haul him back into a safe hold. The power of the water would rip him from anything less than the two-handed death grip that was keeping him alive. "Best... I... can..," the voice tried to speak.

Ezra nodded. The noose was loosened some. He understood. It was enough.

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Only the initial shock of the icy snow-fed waters had registered on Wilmington. Then it was forgotten in the dire struggle to get both Ezra and himself where they could breathe and keep them there. Letting go had not been an option. He had been gratified when the smaller man stopped his struggles and trusted his word to keep him safe.

Buck knew trust was difficult for the younger man, and, too often, even in the security framed in the six men he rode with, that trust had been sorely tested. With his hands tied helplessly behind him and the noose a frightening reminder of how close he had come to death, he at last had responded to Buck's litany of reassurances and relaxed slightly.

Buck had also heard the shouts and gunfire and realized they were fading in the distance. His heart ached to know whether Larabee was safe. He hated to leave his old friend alone against such odds, it went against every instinct and reflex he had. When the notorious gunslinger got vengeance in his head, it would blind him to the danger in the numbers he was facing.

The erstwhile rascal had mentally shaken the thoughts from his mind. He had made his decision. Ezra was his responsibility. They were headed down stream at a frightening pace and head first.

A stair step-like series of rapids plunged the two underwater and pounded against his already wounded back.

Standish again struggled to reach the surface, almost pulling himself away from Buck's grasp.

Wilmington tightened his grip.

When he had heard his friend's laborious voice rasp that he couldn't breathe, the taller man had cursed himself for every kind of fool. Thinking how terrifying the noose must be, he had maneuvered his grip to the rope as quickly as possible. Next he cursed the knife still in his hand. It was useless. He had little or no control over their backward plunge through the river, much less enough control to attempt to use the knife on the noose or the ropes that held his friend's hands.

Loosening the noose ever so slightly had almost cost him everything. When he had moved his hands from the body on top of him to the rope, the force of the water immediately separated him from the other man.

He grabbed double handfuls of the once white shirt and felt it give and pull from the other man's waistband. A desperate surge finally got his hand across the chest and under an arm for some grip.

The river was much deeper now than when they'd fished here. The summer thaws up in the snow-covered mountains had seen to that. Only occasionally did a rock scrape his back, head or legs except for the rapids themselves. Unfortunately that also meant they were at the mercy of the current. It would be a painfully slow process if they were even able to work their way to shore.

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Chris Larabee could see his friends mostly as dark areas in the water. Occasionally a part of Standish's white shirt, now discolored by mud and what he feared was blood, would flash and reassure him he was looking in the right place. They were moving faster in the water than he could on horseback as the black had to navigate around the roots and other obstacles.

The gunfighter felt a panic unbidden and barely recognized after so many years. It crept up his spine when he realized it was all the pair could do to keep their heads above water. They would need help in a hurry. The exertion, not to mention the frigid temperatures of the water would sap even Buck Wilmington's stubborn determination.

With a whispered cry of frustration, he jerked his horse away from the bank to the cleaner trail above. He hurried to get ahead of the other two men.

\+ 7+ 7+ 7 +7 +7 +

Praying he'd given himself enough time and distance, Larabee finally turned Habenero back toward the water. He could hear vague shouts, carried as water carries sound, from the camp they'd recently disrupted, but they were too far away to make out the words. Good. Maybe that meant they had a little time.

Nothing had seemed more important to the man in black in recent times as getting in position to help his friends.

Just as surely as he knew that at any moment Buck could slam into an outcrop and lose consciousness, or his strength could simply give out, he also knew they would both be safe, or neither. It wouldn't be an option to Buck to save himself at the expense of another. At the same time that Larabee damned his old friend for that irrational loyalty, that had saved his own life more than once, he also gave thanks for it because he suspected that it would keep that irritating gambler alive long enough for one Chris Larabee to make things right between the two of them.

This side of the river was much too steep for any hope of reaching the others, much less getting them safely ashore. There was only one option.

Habanero wasn't happy and balked at the commands he was being given by his rider to edge forward cautiously toward the high side of the river bank. Larabee never considered how like Wilmington he was in this moment; his determination they would all survive or none would. He pushed forward with this thought until finally his loyal horse took the vault into the darkness and snow-fed current.

Wilmington's mare, without the encouragement of a rider, hesitated a bit longer, but in the end, followed after her companion.

Larabee was immediately soaked by the icy waters. Only the black's head and neck were above the water as he struggled toward the other side.

Little more than the gunfighter's torso was above the water line and that had been given a good dousing from the splash as their combined weight displaced the water.

Even now his shirt was absorbing the water and the moisture was creeping towards his shoulders. He was well aware of how the heat was already being leached from his body and that staying in this for even a short time could be life-threatening.

He allowed the black to make its own way; to focus the swim on getting across the river and not using his strength to fight the current that carried them along. The result was that they came on shore further downstream from where they had begun, and several yards from where Larabee would have liked to try and effect his rescue.

But the gelding's labored breathing was enough to assure the rider that the recent effort had in itself been enough exertion on the animal.

Larabee felt the black's feet finally gain solid footing on the far side of the river.

The water was soon much calmer and when the horse sank several inches down into the fine, muddy silt, he understood why. The mossy, rotten, metallic smell told him the water that backed up here had become stagnant and sour behind a beaver dam-like pile of fallen trees and trash.

Both horses sank deep making their way up the riverbank. The noxious liquid quickly oozed in to fill the depressions.

As soon as they made solid ground, the leader of the seven was grabbing the riata off his horse and forming the loop. He strained his eyes in the darkness for a sign of the two men still in the water. He should have ridden hard and fast enough to still be up stream from them. How much time had passed?

It wasn't long before he recognized the shadowy forms being buffeted toward him at the mercy of the current.

"Buck!" He had no idea if he could be heard over the torrential rush that swept them forward.

As the men got closer, their leader realized that they might finally be getting a break. The long night was over. The gray of pre-dawn showed him more than just the silhouettes of his friends.

He prepared to toss the lasso when he noticed something else. Buck was constantly readjusting his hold on the smaller man now. He couldn't keep a grip. With the sudden insight of one who had only recently escaped the frigid environment, Chris knew without a doubt that Buck's fingers were going numb. He was loosing his battle with the cold.

Larabee threw off his duster and hat, secured the end of the rope to Habanero's saddle horn, looped the lariat under one arm and over the opposite shoulder.

He dove back into the violent waters and veered his body toward the other two who were already past him.

Buck fought the current.

Chris let the same current drive him forward, desperate to catch up to the other two men.

With every heartbeat Larabee dreaded the time there would be no more give and the rope wrapped around his saddle horn would go no further and his friends would be swept out of reach.

Using his entire body he ruddered himself toward the others.

The next bout of rapids was in front of them. He knew the rope wouldn't reach to follow through that crevice.

In one last superhuman effort, the gunfighter lunged forward, his body breaking the surf and skirting the top of the waves faster than the submerged bodies could travel.

With a cry of success, he grabbed the gambler's left leg just above the boot. He pulled the form toward him and walked himself, hand over hand, up toward the other man's thigh and waist.

Larabee was very consciously relying on the fact that Wilmington wouldn't let go of his burden. Even if he didn't realize they were close to rescue or didn't understand what was pulling the smaller man back from the rapids, he would hold on.

All the shootist had to do was save Ezra and he would also be saving his oldest friend.

Larabee thought things were working out when he finally reached Standish's belt and gained the first grip on his friend that wasn't precarious at best.

Suddenly the pull against Chris' arms lessened. He found himself face-to-face with Standish. The look of terror on the smaller man's face brought home the understanding that this was both of their worst nightmares.

Buck's hold had finally betrayed him and he had lost the gambler. Larabee realized that the hold he had on the Southerner which he had expected to save both men, had not been enough.


	10. Chapter 11

Suddenly the pull against Chris' arms lessened. He found himself face-to-face with Standish. The look of terror on the smaller man's face brought home the understanding that this was both of their worst nightmares. Buck's hold had finally betrayed him and he had lost the gambler. Larabee realized that the hold he had on the Southerner which he had expected to save both men, had not been enough.

Part 10

"Nooo!" Chris Larabee demanded to any and all. Defying nature and gods alike to take either of these men from him, Larabee's right hand twisted in the denim of the long, lanky leg that tried to get past him.

The rope at last pulled taut. The horse would stand it's ground as if it were in a calf roping. They had participated in several such contests in what, at this moment, seemed like a past life.

The rope bit unmercifully into the fleshy part of Larabee's shoulder, half way between his arm and his neck.

His wet hair had fallen irritatingly into his face and dripped water in his eyes. He was breathing between ripples that in turn forced water down his throat. His teeth were clenched with the exertion of holding onto the two men the river was trying to steal from him.

With a supreme effort, he rotated his right arm downward and behind him. It was a slow process. The water fought for it's prize. "Damn you, Wilmington!" He screamed in frustration, but doubted the sound made it out of his throat.

It was one force of nature against another.

The river didn't stand a chance.

When Larabee's right arm was finally back to his own waist, it had pulled Buck so that Ezra's head was again in the vicinity of Wilmington's chest.

Until this moment, no words had been spoken. All effort had gone into the battle the three men waged, each as best he could, against the current. "Ezra," Chris gasped. "Can you... grab Buck?"

The Southerner had already comprehended the situation and had been grasping for anything near a secure grip. He could feel the shirt billowing in the water within grasp of his still bound hands. That wouldn't be enough. But he could just barely feel the wide leather belt his friend wore. "Inch... two... Mr. Lar..." Water cut of the words and the smaller man began to cough violently.

Larabee strained to pull Buck closer in to them.

"No," Ezra gasped. "Belt."

Larabee did the logistics immediately and realized the gambler was asking him to risk releasing Buck a couple of inches so he could grab a handhold on the belt. He was preparing to trust the younger man to make the catch when... "Got... got it."

It was Buck. Chris had never heard such a sweet sound.

Ezra nodded reassurance in response to the hopeful look he saw in Chris's eyes. He could feel Buck's fingers wrapped around the back of his belt. Buck's hands were as uselessly numb as were his own, but shoving them between the belt and pants should hold for a time.

So near. So far. "Buck! The rope won't reach!"

"Ezra..." Buck's voice was weak and tired. "Lean into Chris. Kick... kick out... left."

Chris knew what they were trying. He prayed the two men had strength left to execute the maneuver and garnered his own strength to help as much as he could. He did his best to help them make the turn that would point their feet downstream and get their shoulders within the reach of the loop. He held Ezra's belt as long as he could until he had to readjust his grip and move it to the man's surprisingly well-muscled arm.

Once they were sideways to the river, the added mass of their bodies gave the current more to push against and made it harder to hold on.

Larabee's icy fingers were paralyzed in the grip that would save his friends. He wouldn't let go. He pushed against Ezra's legs trying to complete the rotation as quickly as possible.

Ezra could feel the current was pulling Buck's hands from where he had shackled himself with Ezra's belt. Standish was afraid they would still lose Wilmington.

The gambler could no longer speak, too exhausted to even form words. He couldn't warn Chris to help their friend.

Then the hands were free and Buck was slipping away as rapidly as the water rushing by.

With a final surge of energy he didn't know he had but knew he had to find, the gambler wrapped his legs around the larger man's back.

The youngest of the three slid a few inches as he wrestled the water for Wilmington and for a breath - that he couldn't take because he was underwater - he thought he had been torn from Larabee's grasp. But then he was above the water again, and so was Buck, and Chris' strong hands pulled both of them back to the safety of his firm hold.

When their bodies finally passed the midway point the force of the river itself had finally pushed the two men in the direction they were aiming for and suddenly Chris was resting his forehead against Buck's cheek. The maneuver was complete.

Larabee remembered that a quick, habitual anger had given him the strength to get to this point. He had raged silently at Buck for letting go of Standish when they had been so close; raged that he might lose his friend. But now that he felt the freezing skin of his friend's face and the hands that were fumbling ineffectively to help him with the lasso, the fury washed downstream with the other debris. As usual, these two had lasted as long as they had to to survive and keep each other alive.

Chris allowed himself the moment, the feel of his friend breathing, if harshly, under his arms, to regain his strength. Finally, knowing there was more to be done, Larabee transferred the rope around Buck's shoulders. "Ezra," Buck ordered. "Can't hold..." And Larabee agreed. The gambler's hands were still tied behind his back. He lowered the rope until it was over Ezra's shoulders, which put it at Buck's waist.

"Buck... gonna work back... get horse... pull..."

He felt rather than saw the dark-haired gunman nod against his neck. "Careful... Pard," Buck murmured, then the arm that had held him comfortingly around the neck and shoulders was gone.

The slight body heat of Larabee's forehead was missed. He could feel the rope jiggle and jerk. It reminded him of the feel of a yellow cat on a trot line before you actually got to that hook. At least it told him that Chris was still there and was working his way back up the rope.

Buck couldn't help himself - he held his breath between each jolt to the next. He was afraid he wouldn't feel one, which would mean that Chris had been swept away by a river already angry at losing the night's contest to the formidable gunfighter.

To hell with it Buck thought to himself. His hands still weren't working, his fingers wouldn't bend they were so cold. But he wrapped the rope around one arm at the elbow, pulled himself and Ezra up the rope as far as this trick allowed then wrapped his other elbow in the cord above the first one and moved further.

He could only imagine how vulnerable Ezra must feel with his hands still tied behind him. He wished to hell he'd kept hold of that knife. He didn't even remember when the thing had fallen from his useless fingers. But soon, now that Chris was here, they'd get that rope off, and the noose. They'd get warm. C'mon, Ezra He thought to himself, still too weak to say it out loud, let's get the hell out of here.

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The river was damned cold for this time of year. The dense pecan, sycamore and oak trees were hiding the sun, though it had to be above the horizon by now. The heat would follow soon enough Larabee thought absently. He didn't have any trouble pulling himself up the rope. He was ready to get out of this damnable river. If this was the only way to do it, then he would get it done.

+7+7+7+7+

Vin Tanner knew without a shadow of a doubt, that no matter what happened from this day forward, certain images had been seared into his memory. And they had been burned there by fear... a dread he couldn't put into words.

They had left Four Corners when morning was still a promise.

They had broken into the clearing not two hours later.

Because he'd been studying the ground, the first thing that registered was how beaten down the grass was here. The stutter steps and pawing of several nervous horses had chewed up and rutted the moist ground. Trying to see where the tracks led had brought his eyes to two freshly dug graves above the high water line of the spring floods.

So this is where Chris and Buck caught up with the men who had accused Ezra of murder. His eyes scanned the area for more clues. They fell on Josiah. The tall preacher was off his horse and staring at the frayed remains of a rope hanging in a pecan tree at the edge of the water.

The man was probably not even aware that he rotated a hat through his fingers or that he was still staring at the tree.

That was when the first uneasy feeling came to Tanner. It was like a child's game - "What is wrong with this picture?" - until Vin realized what was wrong. Josiah was wearing his hat. The wide brimmed Stetson he worried at was Buck's.

Vin's eyes had darted around quicker, then, seeking more clues to what had happened here. He was off his horse for a closer look at the ground when he came up to JD. The boy was also on foot. That silly little gelding of his was nudging a shoulder for attention. He had spoiled the animal and so it wasn't used to being ignored so completely.

Their youngest had his back to the tracker. But even so Tanner could read the tension in the shoulders, the frozen stance. The boy wasn't moving. Was it a snake or some threat?

Cautiously the tracker edged past and followed the youngest's gaze. He was staring at the ground.

The gun was partially buried in the muddy soil. A few blades of grass that had avoided being trampled by the horses tried to hide it. But when the wind rustled the branches and leaves of the trees, sunlight would sneak down and glint off the front sights. It was Chris's gun.

In the two quick steps it took to get past JD, it was no longer the tracker, but now the bounty hunter trying to read the signs.

He picked up the gun and broke open the cylinder. Empty.

For better or worse, he noticed from the periphery of his consciousness, that this broke the trance the handgun held over JD. He hadn't really meant to meet their youngest's eyes at this discovery, but he did. There was confusion there and a silent plea for an explanation of why Chris Larabee would leave his gun to the elements.

That's what he thought the boy wanted him to answer. But there was so much more. Because, with what seemed a forced effort, the young sheriff bent his elbow and, with a slightly shaking hand, brought a rifle he was holding up for Vin to see.

It was Buck's rifle. He had found it nearby.

And it was empty, too.

"There are only two graves," Nathan remarked as he and Josiah converged on the other men.

"So what? So only two of 'em are dead? Is that what you're sayin'?" Vin demanded.

JD staggered back a step like the words had been a physical blow. His eyes were wide when he looked back at the graves. "You think..."

"If Buck and Chris had been too late to save Ezra..." Josiah's voice was gentle.

"No," JD stated flatly as his eyes cut to the remnants of the rope in the tree. But then he wondered why he was questioning the older men's observations.

"They hung Ezra?" He asked in a small voice.

"We don't know that," Vin spat out.

"Chris and Buck would both let vengeance take over their better judgment," Josiah continued. He was voicing his own fears; almost begging for Vin to tell him he'd misread the signs. "If one of them fell, the other would see to the burial of the two, no matter how bad he was hurt."

JD took a step backwards as if avoiding the words would make them go away. But he couldn't run. Vin hadn't said anything yet. He'd set the preacher straight.

But Vin remained silent. It was Nathan who spoke next. "And then he'd go out to kill as many of those ranch hands as he could before they gunned him down."

Nathan believed with all his heart that if these events had unfolded as Josiah feared, then Chris Larabee would have been the one left standing. Larabee would again bury loved ones he couldn't save.

Now, or later, in Nathan's mind, Larabee would be one of the last two of the seven standing because fate had chosen to torture him that way. Nathan didn't know the whys of such things, but while some men could fall into money, some were accident prone and some could laugh and get away with stunts that would have most men thrown in jail, hurt and loss gravitated to others and defied them to keep going. Men like Chris Larabee ... and Nathan Jackson.

"You're scarin' the kid," Vin accused.

"Vin, two against eight? Nine?"

"Ezra said he'd never bet against Chris and Buck together. Throwing him in as a wild card? I'm gonna go find 'em." Vin met their eyes, one by one with defiance. Then he turned back and mounted up.

+7 +7 + 7+ 7+ 7+7 +

Vin hadn't looked back since he'd said those words and reined his horse downstream. The others followed silently. No one had looked back at the silent graves.

 **7** +7+7+7+7+

Buck still had the best of intentions. He would pull Ezra and himself upward along the rope and be that much closer to dry land when Chris got the horse moving. Dry being the operative word.

His skin was pruning up. There was no feeling in his back. It was too cold. That could be good or bad. At least one of the shotgun blasts from Miller's gun had hit him and Ezra both. He as yet had been unable to tell how serious either's wounds were.

The former Texas Ranger glanced down at the smaller man whose head was resting on his chest. He couldn't see past the crest of chestnut hair; couldn't tell if Ezra was awake or asleep or unconscious. Buck was too tired to call out to him.

The tautness of the rope, although putting pressure on his back and most certainly Ezra's chest, at least made it slightly easier to keep his head above water.

Oh, yeah Wilmington remembered he had been going to pull himself up the rope. Well, just another minute's rest. Then he'd get back to it.

"Buck." Had someone called him? "Buck!" He slowly came back to awareness. His back was against the riverbed. It was Chris's voice. He forced himself to look around.

Chris was beside the black, backing it slightly up the bank. In turn the rope, one end fastened to the saddle horn, was reeling the other two men to the land.

How had time passed? Buck felt the backs of his legs hit the bottom. He wrapped his arms around Ezra to move him forward. "Hey, Ezra, Ole Chris done got us out of a fix."

Larabee freed the rope from his horse's saddle to release the tension. He trotted down the bank as Buck levered himself to his knees and pulled Ezra up as well.

The gunfighter waded into the stagnant backwater and took Standish's other arm as he helped Wilmington pull the rope free over both of their heads.

"Ezra?" Chris slapped the southerner on the cheek to get his attention. "C'mon, boy, get your legs under you."

"Cold," came the mumbled reply. He seemed to be trying to rub his ear with his shoulder.

Larabee pulled a knife from his boot sheath and finally cut the ropes that bound the younger man's wrists. The hands were swollen, the wrists bruised deep purples and blacks.

Ezra immediately tried to raise his arms. They had been in one position for so long, the muscles ached from the palms of his hands to deep in his shoulders and shoulder blades with the movement, but he seemed determined to work past the pain. When he didn't have the strength or pain tolerance to manipulate both arms, he tried one, then the other. He just couldn't seem to get them to rotate up.

It dawned on Buck first what his friend was trying to do. First he had tried to rub the noose, still around his neck, loose and somehow get out of it. Now he was trying to make his cold-numbed fingers and stiff muscles respond enough to remove it.

"Aw, hell, Ezra," Wilmington said in sympathy and apology that he hadn't realized earlier what his friend was trying to do. "Oh, Lord, Ezra, I'm so sorry," He immediately loosened the noose and flung it angrily into the water.

"Thank you," Ezra whispered hoarsely.

Larabee gently tilted the gambler's head one way then the other. There were rope burns around his neck. All around the rash were what looked like insect bites where the coarse bristle-like fibers had pricked the skin. They would both fade with time, but until then they would be a reminder to Larabee that things had been much too close.

Larabee's eyes slid up to Wilmington's. Wilmington read the regret there and his midnight blue glare eased somewhat. But there was still a question there for Chris to answer: How had it gotten this far in the first place. No this one wasn't going to go away like so many other disappointments that Larabee had inflicted on his old friend.

"What is that stench?" Standish's slurred voice sounded like a drunk.

Buck and Chris had been too busy to notice the odor that emanated from the stagnant water that licked at the land.

"Do you want me to tell you before or after I tell you you're hip deep in it?" Wilmington teased. It was noxious but not unfamiliar to the men who had spent so much time out-of-doors; just a part of nature.

The look of utter disgust on the younger man's face delighted the dark-haired gunslinger. His eyes sparkled with amusement that he had to share with his oldest friend. Larabee returned the look with a contented smirk. He reached behind Standish and popped Buck on the back of the head much as the other man would discipline JD on occasion. Much like old times.

Chris knew he had things to answer for, but found comfort in the fact that he knew Buck would give him the chance. There was even more comfort in the fact that this time he wanted to make things right and cared whether he did or not.

"You got him?" Larabee asked, getting ready to get Ezra out of the water. Buck nodded and braced himself in the quicksand like silt so that he could support both of their weight. Larabee worked his way up the bank and turned to take the Southerner after him.

With a glance, Buck saw the man several yards behind Chris and thought at first he was imagining it. Then he recognized him. It was one of the kid rancher's men, Mike, and more than that he held dynamite in the hand he had cocked back to hurl in their direction.

"Chris!"

The tone in his old friend's voice was all the gunfighter needed to be looking for danger. Spinning, he drew Buck's gun he was carrying holstered from the night before. He registered his target and fired even as the sputtering stick of destruction left the other man's hand. The bullet met it's target in fatal consequences. But it was already too late.

"Down!" Larabee shouted to his friends.

The concussion of air from the explosion threw him to the ground and forced Buck and Ezra face down into the noxious green water.


	11. Chapter 12

The concussion of air from the explosion threw him to the ground and forced Buck and Ezra face down into the noxious green water.

Chapter 12

The mud was slick and black, oily, silty fine and tinged with some living substance that gave it a greenish cast. The smell was death and rotting foliage. It was nauseous and Buck could taste the metallic edge in his mouth long after it had passed down his throat.

Ezra was coughing and spitting and seemed to gag. He tried to wipe the substance from his face but it was on his sleeves and hands. He only succeeded in smearing it around.

Buck was trying to take account of the situation. Their attacker would be dead, no doubt. Larabee wouldn't miss that shot. The horses had bolted and run from the sudden destructive noise. He panicked.

He couldn't see Chris.

Ezra was still trying to wrap his tired mind around how or why he found himself face down in the foul semi-liquid ooze when he felt a strong hand grab his elbow and drag him up the bank.

It wasn't until their feet were firmly on dry land that he was left on his own. But he was aware that Buck's eyes had never stopped seeking the third member of their party. Ezra collapsed to his knees and began to assess the situation for himself.

When Ezra was safe, Buck turned his attention entirely to moving up the slope although he staggered and more often than not was in a three point stance rather than standing up. He wanted one minute - sixty seconds - to regroup, think, figure out why things were moving so fast... breathe.

But he realized what he truly wanted when he saw it. He wanted Chris Larabee sitting up, glaring, ready to eat nails, but at least he was alive and hadn't survived the rapids only to fall to the dynamite.

The former Texas Ranger sent up a silent prayer of thanks when he found his friend. His relief was short lived when he saw the man was trying to staunch the flow of blood from a wound gouged in his left calf.

Buck made his way to his friend's side and still no one spoke. Their eyes said they were glad that each other was safe, but for the next few moments Buck and Chris barely breathed. They were listening and looking for anything that might indicate that the man had not been alone.

Finally Buck took the knife he knew would be in Larabee's right boot. He turned the knife on Larabee's pants leg, slit it open and evaluated the cut. A good four inches long and deep. Dirt, mud and tiny particles of gravel had been impaled in the wound.

Buck went to grab the bandana around his neck only to realize at the touch, that the thing was as coated with the muddy slime as his hands were. Before he could despair, a clean bandana bobbed before his eyes. He looked up into the green eyes of the gambler.

"I appropriated it from that imbecile who was unfortunate enough to offer Mr. Larabee a target given his predisposition to violence."

Buck smiled and, after wiping as much mud as possible from his hands on the new spring grass around them, he took the bandana to tie around the wound and staunch the bleeding. Larabee hissed when he pulled the ends tight. Buck met the other man's hard hazel shaded eyes that tried to mask the pain.

In response, Buck couldn't help but smile, big and sincere. They'd made it, by damn. All of them. Larabee's answering smirk said the same thing.

Chris's eyes, tinged hazel in his relaxed state, cut to Standish. "Predisposition to violence?" He sounded like a pissed off rattler looking for someone to take it out on.

"I also took the liberty of commandeering the fellow's side arm." Standish smiled. "For self-preservation." Was Larabee actually attempting some joking banter?

"You look too tired to lift it." Larabee didn't miss a beat.

"There is a fable a cousin of mine was fond of relating. Usually when we had invoked the ire of her parents during one of my mother's numerous absences." He tried to sit down on the grass beside Buck but ended up plopping down in a most ungentlemanly fashion. "Two men were walking in the wilds. They came upon a wounded, angry bear. The more urbane of the two asked the frontiersman what they should do. The frontiersman said 'run'. The city fellow, amazed, replied, 'Can we really outrun that bear?' To which the frontiersman replied, 'I don't have to outrun the bear. I only have to outrun you.'" Ezra let the story sink in before he added, "Looking at Mr. Wilmington, I feel certain that in his current exhausted state, I can outrun him."

Buck barked a quick laugh, not suspecting this response from the sophisticated man. "We are a sad lot, huh, Pard? I bet if you took us apart and put us back together, you couldn't get one healthy man out of the mix."

Chris's gaze cut to Standish. "How are you doing? Really?"

Standish was surprised he couldn't meet the sincerity in the eyes that asked the question. "Fine. Thank you." Thank you for coming after me. Thank you for saving my life. Thank you for caring.

"Fine?" Buck asked. He noticed that the smaller man was trembling from the cold and his lips still had a bluish tinge. "You're freezing."

"Better than the alternative," Ezra uttered, involuntarily fingering the rope burn around his neck.

The silence began to turn uncomfortable.

Chris didn't know how to say Ezra shouldn't have gone out on his own. He wasn't good at apologizing. Buck was waiting for Chris to say something.

Ezra didn't understand the silence and thought perhaps it had something to do with Larabee being angry with having to come save him. The insecurities that childhood had embedded in his personality were quite sure that Wilmington had come after him first and that Chris had come to keep Buck safe.

That there was any concern in the deadly gunfighter's eyes had surprised and confused him. He didn't want to meet those eyes again, afraid he had misread what he saw there, afraid if he looked again, it would be gone.

"They'll still be after us." Larabee finally broke the silence with a glance toward the corpse that assured them the vengeance driven young man hadn't given up. Unfortunately he knew Miller's kind all too personally and all too well.

"Perhaps I'll go try to find that hellspawn you call a horse, Mr. Larabee." Ezra was staggering to his feet as he spoke. He tried to keep it light. But the reality was that dangerous men were trying to kill him and would keep coming. If he didn't do something, Buck and Chris would be standing between the two factions when they met.

"You sure you're up to it, Ezra?" Buck asked as he too levered himself to his feet.

The sincere concern in the other man's voice more than anything fortified his determination. He nodded. He was dizzy, though. If he looked up, he knew Buck would see it. Fighting to stay on his feet, he didn't realize the other man had moved toward him and jerked back slightly when he felt the front of his shirt pulled open. The buttons were long since missing.

Buck carefully fingered the small wounds left by the shotgun pellets. They didn't seem too serious, though some were inflamed. And some of the shot was embedded under the skin and would have to be removed. Then he checked the smaller man's wrists for mobility and examined the bruises. He glanced at the rope burn around the other man's neck, but didn't want to draw too much attention to it or draw recent memories to the fore by examining it closer. "You took a crack on the head in town last night."

"A distant memory," Ezra lied without missing a beat. But the question caused him to remember everything else that had transpired the night before and that made him flinch. "Mr. Tanner?"

"JD went to get Nathan. He'll be good as new by the time we get back," Buck promised. It sounded only slightly hollow.

Buck watched the Southerner closely. He knew the man was hurt, but they all were. He also knew how tough and determined Standish could be when a friend of his needed help. If Ezra could find the horses... "Don't wander too far. I'm gonna move Chris up to a drier area. If you don't find the horses in short order get back here," Ezra nodded. "I mean it. I don't want to have to come looking for you."

Ezra looked up then, and his smile was wide enough for his dimples to show. Buck sounded like a father giving a son a curfew. Or he sounded like Buck threatening JD if he didn't watch out for his own safety.

Tapping an imaginary hat, the gambler worked his way slowly up the steep slope of the bank.

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Ezra increased his pace slightly when the ground leveled out. He made it past the first few trees until he was sure they would hide him from the sight of the other two men. Then he sank to the ground. He was spent. He had known it even as he enjoyed the light-hearted moment with the other two.

He had to rest. But he didn't want the others to worry so much that they didn't let him go... Go where? What was he supposed to be looking for?

He reached to the back of his waistband. When he pulled his hand back, there was blood. The second shotgun blast had caught him at his waist. Walking must have started the bleeding again. He wondered how much blood he had lost in the water? How much had Buck lost?

He was cold, and wet and ...Now... oh, yes... horses. I'm supposed to find a horse. Where would it... He used the tree to get leverage to stand. But the ground tilted, his knees gave and he had lost all consciousness of his surroundings before he hit the ground.

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Buck was trying to support Chris, but the further up the bank they moved, the more he realized that it was the other way around.

Buck's arm around Chris's waist did help him keep some of the weight off his left leg, but other than that, Aww, hell Buck felt his legs collapse. Larabee couldn't support both their weight on his one good leg and they both went to the ground. "Aww, hell." He was sure he said it aloud this time.

"Rest, Buck. You always push yourself too hard." Chris was trying to get his friend's legs stretched out from their awkward position. Buck just wanted to be left alone to rest, just for a minute.

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He had seen them coming and could tell that while these two would usually be alert and next to impossible to sneak up on, they were both already stretched beyond their endurance and it took all their concentration to place one foot in front of the other.

Besides, he wasn't sneaking up on them, he had sat his horse quietly and waited for them to stagger to him.

They both heard it. The click of a gun being cocked.

Chris spun in the direction of the sound, putting himself between it and Buck. His hand moved reflexively for the weapon at his side, but stopped when he saw the one already pointed in their direction.

The man was sitting on a tall, rusty colored leopard appaloosa. For some reason it occurred to Buck that you could almost mistake the animal for a strawberry roan in the wet, overcast weather that had hounded them from the beginning of this affair.

Buck remembered this man as being the most amiable of the lot, and loyal to the youngest Miller to a fault. Somehow, Buck thought this one could be the most dangerous one of all.

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Vin still had a headache and it was making itself more known when there was no immediate action available to distract him. And, truth be told, his muscles were sore from the fall. He was sore in places he didn't know he could get sore.

He knew Nathan was watching him. But there was nothing physical that wouldn't heal. He'd been lucky.

What Vin was struggling desperately to shake was the feeling that had come over him when he realized he was trying to place different combinations of his friends beneath the cold mounds of dirt they'd left behind. He was testing to see if any combination gave him some measure of relief or consolation over the others. The thought had come unbidden to his mind and worked itself through the possibilities lightning fast. The answer he came up with brought both relief and sorrow, and yet it also created a strange peace within him.

No, he would miss none of his friends less than the others. He would lose more if he lost Larabee, he conceded, because the lone gunfighter had given more to the lonely tracker.

He suspected Buck had intentionally limited association with Vin when he saw that the burgeoning friendship between Larabee and Tanner had, what at least Buck perceived, to be a healing effect on his haunted friend.

Tanner hadn't missed the fact that, when Larabee would do something that could potentially damage their growing bond, Wilmington was always there to justify or simply explain the man to his new best friend.

Vin remembered when Hank, Chris' father-in-law, came to town. He couldn't understand how a man could turn his back on kin. Vin's own past hadn't given him much of a chance to defend family. That very fact made watching out for your own important to him. And there was Buck, quietly, sincerely explaining why Chris was acting the way he was, defending him with plain truths.

Once he had begun contemplating the situation, Tanner had no doubt that Buck's loyalty encompassed them all. The ex-lawman just distributed his presence between the group as he felt he was needed. Vin involuntarily glanced at JD when that thought wafted into his mind.

In a big family there were sure to be fights. And times you really didn't like a brother or what they did. But you always loved them and protected them and helped them through the rough times that had one at odds with the other. Buck had taught him that.

No, above and beyond the fact that losing Buck would be losing the glue that worked so hard to hold the group together, for Vin, personally, losing Buck would be losing laughter and a lighter way of looking at the world and a quiet insight that maybe the lanky gunfighter had only shared with Chris and JD... and Vin.

And Ezra? Ezra was a Chinese puzzle. He'd seen one in the orphanage.

Ezra was like him, afraid to warm up to another soul.

Maybe there was some difference. Where Vin was afraid he would lose people he came to care about, he suspected that the conman was afraid they would disappoint him, abandon him when he needed them.

It was sobering to realize that, with the events of last night, Chris and Nathan had come very close to justifying the Southerner's fears.

They had only gotten glimpses of the real Ezra Standish beneath the subterfuge and self-preservation. No, none of them yet had a true handle on exactly how much they would be losing if they lost Ezra.

The tragedy would be if they found Ezra Standish alive and they still lost him. Because that would mean they had betrayed a friend and justified all of the enigmatic loner's opinions that he could never trust his fellow man.

"Vin!" JD's voice cut through his reverie. The boy had pulled up that little pony of his and was staring across the river.

Tanner followed the young sheriff's gaze and kicked himself for ten kinds of a fool. He'd been following track, thinking like the hunter, not the hunted.

The boy was pointing out a gray ghost surrounded by the heavy mist formed when the water hit the air. It was Buck's mare.

"JD, wait," Josiah was calling even as the boy was already inching his small bay encouragingly to take to the river.

Josiah didn't want the boy to get his hopes up. He wanted the boy to grieve, move on, let the good memories fight back the darkness, hate and vengeance that could grow out of this situation. He was afraid of what false hope would do to the boy.

Vin appreciated Josiah's insight and that he must be reacting from some painful, sad experiences.

But to hell with that.

With barely a touch to his raucous, crotchety gelding's flanks, man and beast were racing for the riverbank.

Well used to the elements, they both felt little more than invigorated when they hit the frigid blue. Vin felt lighter, hopeful. They landed several feet into the flowing waters and pushed onward immediately.

It was all the encouragement JD's little Hero needed. They were right behind him.

On most occasions cooler heads would prevail. And experience would see the folly of crossing the water without at least looking for a safer route. But Josiah and Nathan both had demons much too close to the surface. And they chose to exorcise them in the holy waters of nature. Without a second thought, they urged their horses in after the two younger men.

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	12. Chapter 13

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Chris Larabee couldn't remember a time that he was ever glad to be walked into the enemy's camp at gunpoint. But if it meant they could rest.

They'd been walking a long time. Their captor hadn't rushed them, hadn't been malicious, but the pace had been steady.

What concerned him was that gradually he had found himself carrying most of Buck's weight. Buck was on automatic, one foot in front of the other, because his friend hadn't said they could stop yet. And he was quiet. There was none of the encouraging banter to reassure the gunfighter of his faith in their ability against any odds.

All Larabee wanted right now was a chance to rest and find out what kind of injuries Buck had been hiding from him.

The coo of a mourning dove heralded their arrival. Chris hadn't seen the guard who faked the call to alert the camp to one of the own coming in.

Four men stood from around the campfire as Chris staggered in under the weight of his exhausted friend.

Red dismounted to stand to Larabee's left as Jason led the others to confront him. Even the lookout, long rifle hitched casually on his hip, joined the group.

The kid, Kyte, walked over to be sure Red was okay. He was favoring his wounded hand; careful not to jostle it.

From the corner of his eye Larabee saw the older man gently lift the injury and check it. The dark gunfighter refused to turn his eyes from the leader of the group, but just the movements to his right reminded him sharply of Buck tending to JD.

Chris focused his attention on the embittered young man and evaluated him again. This one had been raised with a gun in his hand, maybe not a lot of respect for human life, but he'd only become a killer out of revenge.

"Mike's dead," Red stated without emotion.

Fast as a snake's strike, Jason backhanded Larabee across the jaw. Trying to keep his balance, the peacekeeper put too much sudden weight on his injured leg and went down.

Red's grasp was nothing but supportive as he caught Wilmington to keep him from falling as well.

Larabee hadn't realized how out of it his friend was until the flurry of movement had him fighting weakly against what he recognized as unfamiliar hands. The men behind Jason moved in to help Red subdue the tall man.

Larabee, ignored the cocked .45 the young landowner aimed his way.

The life in his intense eyes flashed clearer when he was protecting something or someone and turned them bright green. Chris scrambled to his feet and headed straight for his friend. "Hands off," he growled and lowered them both to the ground.

"Chris?" Buck asked, recognizing the voice and the touch.

"Hold on a minute, Big Guy," He turned to Jason. "You don't want to do this."

The other men sensed enough danger in the blonde to back off. Jason took a step forward. "Where's the gambler?"

Chris stared defiantly at the younger man.

But this one was more than just a fast gun and anger. He had been evaluating Larabee even as he himself had been studied. And whether he knew what he was seeing, or simply reading from personal perspective had him guessing right, this man understood Chris Larabee. And playing on that insight, he nodded for his men to go for Wilmington in response to Larabee's contempt.

"He's gone," the gunfighter's voice seemed to offer the information begrudgingly and as if he said it to protect Wilmington.

Jason held up a hand to stall his men. "Took both our horses and ran out on us."

Buck looked quickly at his partner. Did he believe that?

"After you saved him?" Kyte asked.

"He'd bet his sainted Ma in a poker game if it got him what he wanted." Chris was good at putting anger in his voice. He used that ability now. Wilmington bowed his head to hide his relief. Chris was pulling a bluff of his own.

"Why'd you come after him?" Jason asked suspiciously.

"You dragged a man out of town for a crime he'd been cleared of. My town."

Jason's eyes flickered to his brother in unspoken question.

"They didn't 'pear to get along," the younger Miller observed.

Jason seemed to evaluate the situation. He studied Larabee and Wilmington for any deception. Larabee looked angry. The other one just looked tired.

He cast a glance at his foreman.

Damn Buck thought. That one's even more stingy with his words than Larabee. And the humor, never far from Buck's personality began to resurface with that thought. And that smile, like nothing else, irritated Jason Miller.

"Didn't see Standish around," Red offered. "Me and Mike had split up."

Miller's eyes returned to his prisoners. "I've got three men dead at your hands."

Things would have been over last night if not for these two. The gambler would be dead. He would be waiting to see if revenge satisfied could bring any peace back to his world. Instead he had buried two friends and had been pushed even further to the edge of sanity.

The peacekeeper with the dark hair might just be doing his job. But, to Jason Miller, it seemed that the notorious gunfighter was defying him. In a slight shift he barely recognized, Miller still blamed Standish for his brothers' deaths, but he hated Larabee.

The gambler represented vengeance.

Chris Larabee mirrored the part of Jason's soul that would not rest; would not find peace. The rancher might even be doing the older blonde a favor to end his suffering. Without conscience thought, the elder Miller was looking down the front sights of his .45 at the man who he held responsible.

"Jason." Red's voice was firm. The look it got said that despite whatever the recent past had wrought, he still had the ear and the respect of the younger man. "Standish is one thing. You'll leave these men to the law."

"They are the law. And they ride with a murderer!"

"I'll not be party to murder. I'll not let you make Kyte party to it."

"Then let Standish be," Larabee demanded. The gunslinger was still on his knees beside Wilmington.

Miller threw the heel of his boot into the blonde's solar plexus. Chris's back hit the ground with enough violence to knock the air out of him.

Wilmington pounced on the rancher faster than conscious thought would allow. He was grappling for the younger man's throat before beefy hands pulled him roughly off his target.

Jason aimed the gun at Buck.

Red stepped between them.

Two of the gunmen held Chris's arms securely. The third man had a death grip on Buck. Red stood between his boss and the two prisoners.

There was a battle going on between the older man and the younger one even though no further words were being spoken.

Finally Jason Miller took a step back. "Mount up. We're wasting time that damned Southerner is using to get away from us." He turned flinty eyes back to the man who dared stand up to him. "You ain't got the stomach for what needs to be done, you watch these two." Then he gave orders to his other men. "Tie 'em up. I'll deal with them when I get back." He turned on his heel and moved to saddle his horse.

Kyte wavered between Red and his brother. There was confusion. What he knew was right was battling what was expected of him. In the end, being what his brother wanted him to be led the young man to the horses.

The ranch hands grabbed Chris and Buck and dragged them along as they followed a pensive Red. He led them to the campfire and a two-foot high granite boulder there, shaded by a regal oak tree and surrounded by mouse hair fine grass. Taller, reedy grass and cattails separated the camp from the river.

The others helped tie the hands and ankles of their prisoners then immediately went to saddle their horses and follow their leader.

Buck and Red both watched the boy mount up and follow his big brother. They both saw the time he almost looked back once and then stopped.

Larabee paid no never mind to the kid. He was caught up watching the two men who stayed behind with him. The notorious gunman had no indication what Wilmington was seeing as this scene played out.

What Buck actually feared was that, in the end, JD would follow Chris and his anger and his gunslinger ways no matter what Buck tried to teach him. Just like Kyte followed Jason.

All Larabee saw was that Buck looked almost as concerned for the younger Miller as the foreman did. Larabee didn't understand that and didn't like it. And he didn't know whether he didn't like not understanding or it was the fact that Buck was so concerned that he didn't like.

Larabee understood on some basic level without examining it, that there were degrees of accountability for their situation. Some of their captors were more guilty than others. And it was Kyte as much as Red who seemed to have no stomach for what they were doing, but that didn't matter.

These men, all of them, were a threat. They would all have to be dealt with as quickly and efficiently as possible to end the threat. These things didn't lay themselves out, step by step, to this conclusion for Larabee, they were just the conclusion. It bothered him that his old friend seemed to be seeing more to it than that.

The big foreman knelt before Larabee and leaned him forward enough to check the ropes that held his hands behind his back. The big man stayed where he was and finally added, "I saw those kids grow up." He spared a glance for Jason and Kyte. He mused pensively, "I saw what they were before..." The older man seemed to stop himself and finally lumbered off.

The notorious gunfighter leaned his head back against the cool stone. "How the hell'd we get into this?"

"I'd rather figure how to get out of it." The tone of voice was so unfamiliar, it made Larabee open his eyes. He turned his head enough to see his old friend watching the man walking away with a curious expression. There was none of the usual humor or hope in the features. "That's right. Otherwise you might have to try defending that damnable Southerner. What was he thinking, riding out like..."

"No." Chris looked up at the emptiness in the word. Wilmington was still watching the foreman who tended to his appaloosa and arranged the camp. Then the eyes turned toward him. "What did you say to him? To Ezra."

"Don't try to put this off on me."

"Maybe you'd already said enough."

"People paid heed to my spoutin' off, you'd be long since gone." Larabee realized he had again spoken without thinking. The words were out before he realized there had been times when Buck had indeed left. He could tell that these were the dark-haired man's thoughts as well.

Well, maybe this was time for that talk Larabee had promised himself he'd have with his oldest friend and clear the air.

"Kestrel said..." Buck began.

"Don't." Larabee was taken by surprise and angry to hear the name. It pushed any of the gentler thoughts of reconciliation out of his mind. "Don't cite anything that man said to me and give it credence."

"Said you meant the things you said. That I was too selfish and too 'needy'..." He almost choked on the word, "...to admit it."

Larabee was startled by the words. How long was that man going to haunt them? Hazel eyes reflected a sudden concern. He had heard enough of what that man had said to his friend, he hadn't even thought what other words had been thrown at him.

Few people beside Kestrel or Larabee himself would know enough to attack the easy-going rascal by challenging his friendships. What demons had Buck been carrying all this time?

It wasn't until he heard the voice again, of possibly his truest friend, that he realized that his stunned silence and introspection may have unintentionally added credibility to the words. "... said Nathan, Josiah, and the others tolerate me because you do and they're afraid to cross you. Said you keep me around like a bad habit."

Larabee wasn't good at words. He didn't know what to say. He tried logic. "That would be like you thinking the same about JD."

The gunfighter seemed... vulnerable... was the word that came to Larabee's mind. And he realized how ill the man must be to be revealing these thoughts. "Clay said you're the boy's hero though. You 'discouraged him following you 'round like a puppy' was Clay's words. But you sorta liked it. He said Vin made you mellow enough to tolerate the boy. He knew you and me'd been close one time but with Vin and JD tryin' to be like you, I was a poor second choice."

"And you think Nathan snipin' at you proved all that? Those few words he said?" He didn't mean to sound condescending, but he knew his friend well enough to know what had brought this on.

Buck was studying the other man hard, trying to determine what the question and tone of voice meant. "I'm sayin' it ain't fair for you to think Ezra's not gonna hear exactly what you say and not what he wishes you were sayin'." Then he abruptly changed the subject. "We gotta find Ezra, Pard."

"We're not through here." Larabee knew he hadn't said the right things to ease Buck's mind and so the man was going to move beyond the conversation. Not beyond the self-doubt, but beyond asking Larabee to deny it.

"He was hurt worse than he was lettin' on."

"Buck..."

Then Red was back and stoking the fire. He ignored the prisoners but was within earshot. Buck shut down. Larabee knew this wasn't something he would share around anyone else.

"Buck," Larabee called to his friend. And this time he used a tone that offered no room to be ignored. And those midnight blue eyes, met his. "A man keeps bad habits because he likes having them."

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	13. Chapter 14

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They had crossed the river. It had been a desperate move with the rapids and icy temperatures and darkness, Tanner observed as he realized that his friends must have risked that watery gauntlet in the night.

Even in the daylight it had been treacherous. And freezing.

But it may have worked, by damn, and at least one of them was still alive.

The multiple tracks of Miller and his men had continued downstream on the far side of the water. And yet there was Buck's easy-going mare, neck bowed and still, but giving some hope to the search.

Vin saw it as soon as they got close to the big mare. She wasn't putting any weight on her left leg. None at all.

He went to the gray like Nathan would to a wounded man.

JD untangled the reins from the scrub brush that had kept the horse from moving. There were scrapes and cuts along the lower legs, but nothing serious enough for her to keep the weight off...

"Vin?" JD left the question hanging. His eyes were taking in the same things as the tracker.

Vin forced himself to examine their surroundings for threats before he checked on the animal. There was no one around.

Josiah and Nathan stayed on their horses looking for trouble, looking for some signs of the fate of their friends. With them on watch, Vin finally joined the youngest of the peacekeepers where he was now speaking gently to the gray as he stroked the neck.

"Vin?" JD repeated.

"I don't know yet," the tracker replied referring to what he thought was most likely the fate of their fellow peacekeepers.

As a distraction he carefully picked up the horse's leg and turned it so that he could examine the sole of the hoof. JD continued to speak soothingly to Paladin, but she seemed content to be surrounded by the familiar humans.

"Aw, hell,"Vin muttered.

Nathan reacted by instinct and dismounted. It was an injury, maybe he could help.

Vin ran his finger gently over the sole of the hoof. When the horse tried to jerk away in response, Vin and JD both had to gentle her down. At last the mare was again still.

Vin turned to the healer. "Let me see one of your knives, Nathan," he asked distractedly.

The knife was in his hand in an instant.

Tanner took something between the knife blade and his thumb. He began a steady pull and pull and pull. At first the healer thought the poor animal had stepped on a nail as the hard, mahogany object continued to come out. While it's two inches was close to the length of the nails used on the church's roof, this was a little thinner, the point much sharper. A mesquite thorn.

Nathan's mind flashed back. They had made flour from mesquite beans and a sweet jelly that tasted more like honey. Using the wood in the cook stove or campfire gave meat the best flavor. He remembered his Momma and other women he had lived with had used the thorns for sewing needles. The ones this size could be used as leather awls.

But there was one other thing. The level of infection from the thorn in a given year would tell how dry a summer they would have. Many of the people believed there was some sort of poison on the things. He could tell by the look on Vin's face that he held the same belief.

"You get it all out?"

Vin nodded. "But she's dragged dirt into it. Who knows what else. Or how long it's festered." "I saw punctures at the stables back east," JD's voice was full of fear and sadness.

Vin had been regretting the implied question.

Nathan's expression said he didn't understand why they were so concerned about a simple puncture wound.

"The People, when I lived with them, said it was because the hoof doesn't bleed and bleed out the poison." It would be some time before modern science would learn how true the folklore was. It was, in fact, poor blood circulation that gave such a wound a guarded prognosis.

Nathan looked at the small wound and wondered that it could be so deadly. "It could be worse, but..."

"Nathan, can't you do something? You've got to do something," JD whispered. It was an entreaty. Beyond the fact that he was deeply attached to the big, gentle mare, to the boy, the horse was an extension of his missing friend. Losing the animal would be like failing Buck. Nathan looked at the horse. He still didn't allow himself to get attached to his animal that way. He still had a hard time believing someone wouldn't come and tell him he had to let it go like had happened so many times when he was a child.

Larabee considered his horse a tool and he took care of it like he did his gun. They both kept him alive.

Josiah saw his as one of God's creatures, whatever that meant to him.

Tanner saw his as one of nature's creatures and appreciated his personality and cantankerous ways.

JD loved his horse, but the attachment was new and still growing since his arrival in Four Corners.

But Buck? He knew that, like Ezra, he saw that horse as a friend he could rely on when maybe no one else was that true. They both spoiled their animals unabashedly. So, more similarities between the rascal and the conman.

Nathan cringed again remembering the hurtful words he had thrown out at Wilmington because, at the time, it had been like attacking Standish; somehow he'd known that the same words that would reach and hurt the Southerner would do the same for the scoundrel. And attacking Standish had become almost a habit. Nathan still didn't know how to heal what those words had broken. He didn't know where his friends were or what physical injuries might need mending. It would soothe his troubled conscience to do what he could for the gray.

"Vin, you and JD talk your magic to that animal and keep her gentle. I'm gonna try to bleed this hole; make it bigger, get some of that dirt out..."

"Ya cain't bleed it," Tanner's drawl became deeper, a sure indication the situation would get worse before it got better.

"You just said the reason it's dangerous is 'cause it don't bleed."

"It don't bleed like the rest of an animal's body."

Nathan frowned. He was falling back on what he knew. If Vin was telling him already that wouldn't work... "Any ideas?"

"Curette the sole down to open up the wound. About fingernail size around and deep only a fraction." It was clear the tracker was describing something he'd seen before.

"Might drain any abscess, give the poison somewhere to go," the healer pondered the logic of the native ways in relation to what he knew. "If we could draw the infection out somehow..."

"That stuff you use on us all the time,"JD upped as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

"Magnesium sulfate. Don't have no way to hold the liquid around the hoof, JD."

Then an idea hit him. If they were using native ways, so be it. " Josiah, find me some prickly pear. We'll peel off the skin. I've been told the meat can pull out infection as it dries." He didn't sound hopeful, he was guessing, but, "We'll do the best we can, JD."

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Ezra was fascinated by the velvety soft lips that nuzzled his neck. Sensuous. He'd never felt anything so soft. He felt a soft breath behind his ear as the lips nibbled in his hair.

A sudden desire to remember the beauty and see who shared his bed dragged him back from the comfortable darkness of sleep. He opened his eyes and found he was lying on his side. Fine blades of fresh green grass were magnified by their nearness to his nose. He could smell the grass and felt it comfortably padding the ground beneath him.

An outdoor rendezvous? He struggled to recall what feminine wiles could convince him to engage in some tryst here instead of the comfort of his feather bed.

The lips were at the nape of his neck now, nipping a bit. Had he been drinking? He found himself wondering why it was almost impossible to get his sore, aching body to move.

But the anticipation was too much and he forced himself to roll onto his back.

With a surprised yelp, he had suddenly moved three feet away from the other body with no conscious effort.

A horse. It was a horse.

And not any horse, but Larabee's black hellion.

And it pulled that velvety nose back to show teeth in what Standish could only compare to its owner's rare, mischievous smirk. The damn horse was laughing at him?

But then the events of the recent past came back to him. Fear, panic, anger, regret. Buck. Chris. He looked around quickly. The jerky motion sent a jolt of pain into his head.

The horse nudged his shoulders as if trying to draw his attention to something.

Low thunder reverberated along the ground. Horses hooves. Riders coming. Too many horses to be his friends.

Ezra's thoughts swirled. Chris and Buck. Where were they? Old habits kicked in - a sense of self-preservation developed to the point that it had become an art form. He wouldn't rely on anyone to save him. Nor would he be a handicap; taken again and used against his friends. It wasn't their responsibility to watch his back.

The small Southerner pulled himself up by the stirrup of the black.

The riders were closer now.

A sudden wave of vertigo convinced him that he couldn't outrun them; wouldn't even be able to stay in the saddle if he made it that far. Carefully he took the reins and staggered in front of the animal so that as it followed him it would conceal the human tracks made by his boots.

He'd been here before, alone, hurt and on the run. But in the past he'd had more to show for it - a pocket full of folding money or double eagles.

He made it to the edge of the river. Remembering the noxious stagnant water of a few hours ago he was grateful that when he arrived at this section of the river's edge, it sloped down to clean, slow, smooth running shallows.

He released the reins of the black and waded into the cattails, twisted off one of the hollow reeds and, using it as a straw, submerged himself below the surface. Now, if the riders would just move on before he passed out...

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Some instinct had awakened Chris Larabee. He hadn't realized he had dozed, but pure exhaustion had taken the matter out of his hands. He wasn't comfortable. His shoulders were stiff from where his bound hands had held them pulled back. His clothes had dried tacky and stiff to his body. Despite all that, he had to admit he felt better for the rest.

The clouds and fog hadn't let go of their hold on the land, but the sense he got of where the sun was led him to believe he'd lost two or three hours.

Then he became aware of what roused him.

The foreman stood over him with a lethal Bowie knife in his hand. He tensed, prepared to fight off the attack. Then he saw bandages, a canteen and a jar of salve in the other hand and relaxed a fraction.

"I'll tend those wounds long as you don't try nothin'. And you understand I'll gut ya like a fish if I have to." The man waited as if having given the offer, he didn't care if the answer was yes or no.

Larabee glared at the man in silence.

Damn, stubborn, prideful gunslinger Buck thought. Would rather die of blood poisoning than ask for help. "He's got a right nasty cut on that leg beside you." Wilmington motioned to Red with a nod toward Chris. "Didn't have nothin' to get it cleaned up proper."

Larabee turned his glare on his old friend. The look turned to one of worry.

Buck didn't look any better. He was leaning against the boulder, watching them with heavy-lidded eyes. His hair was plastered down, framing his face. There was something familiar and bothersome in the way the mustached man was leaning against the rock.

But the gunslinger persona was in the forefront of Larabee's personality now; his survival instinct. The friend he was or was supposed to be, as was too often the case, was pushed out of the equation.

Larabee turned his glared back on the big, red headed man.

There was a hint of humor in Red's eyes. He even shared the look with Buck. He recognized the similarities between Larabee and Jason, too. And he knew he could take the man's silence as permission to continue.

The gristled older man knelt and cut the ropes from around Larabee's ankles. Then he pulled back Larabee's already slit pants leg for a look. "No real scab yet, just old, dried blood."

Larabee moved cautiously so as not to present a threat, but needed to adjust his position to look for himself. The area was swollen and red, but only in the immediate area of the wound.

"It's got a fever, but I don't think it's spread. How do you feel?"

There was no answer.

Red looked up to see more anger and threat in the hazel eyes than pain and took that as the answer. "Looks like it's trying to heal over before it heals down deep. I want to pull off the dead blood, bleed it, squeeze the pus and infection and dirt out. I may have to make a couple of cuts."

Larabee realized the man was asking permission, maybe even reassuring him that he only meant to help.

"Larabee ain't known to take help graciously," he heard Buck say when the silence stretched too long. "But we'd be obliged for the help."

Without another word the big man began to pick at the scabs with the tip of his knife. The dried blood pulled at some of the hair on the leg, but other than that the big meaty hands had a surprisingly gentle touch.

Buck laid his forehead against the cool granite despite the nip in the air.

Chris scowled when he saw this, but before he could ask, Red did it for him. "How 'bout you, youngster? That scattergun do much damage to your back?"

"Been better, been worse."

"Buck..."

"Whoa, whoa." Red grabbed Larabee's leg when he would have headed over to his friend. "I'll see to it next. Move again like that it won't be my fault if this knife slips."

"Why didn't you say something?" Larabee hissed at Wilmington.

"When did I have time?" He responded with a sincere laugh.

"Make time," the gunfighter growled with a protective tone.

Buck nodded weakly, appreciative of the concern.

Red watched the two of them for a moment but couldn't understand all that was going on.

The dark, moody man glanced at the foreman. "You know they're wrong about Ezra," he stated flatly.

"Known those boys since... since they were babes. Maybe the older one has a mean streak, a little one their daddy encouraged, but they were good to each other. Losing those brothers ... you can't imagine."

"Reckon I might could,"Wilmington mumbled. "But I can tell you that lettin' 'em kill an innocent man ain't gonna make it right. They ain't never gonna be like they were."

Red looked up and tried to read where the sadness in the voice came from. He sounded like he really knew what he was talking about. The blonde was listening, but he didn't seem to know where the conversation was coming from, either.

Red decided he had imagined the quality in the voice that made him feel like this man understood. Finally he went back to what he was doing; wrapping a clean white bandage tightly against the other man's leg. "That gambler ain't innocent," he said, trying to salve a guilty conscience.

"Innocent enough," was the reply. "Innocent of the deeds you're wanting to kill him for."

"Why are you defendin' a man who left you to face Jason Miller's anger?" He was reading more of a threat to the two men being here than he was saying.

"Reckon young Miller left you alone here with Chris in the state he's in. Ain't no difference."

Red was distracted by the implication that the man in the dark clothes could be as dangerous as Jason. As he leaned forward to lever himself off the ground, it was what Larabee'd been waiting for. He kicked out with both legs. They hit Red hard in the jaw. The man had never suspected that his prisoner could work past the pain such a move would cause.

The older man fell to his hands and knees; shook his head to clear it. Larabee struck again, jamming both booted feet into the man's side and the part of his stomach he could reach. Red fell to his side, fighting against the pain and for the air that had been knocked out of his lungs.

Chris quickly propped his back against the granite boulder and inched his bound hands under his butt until, when he sat down again, his hands were in front of him, under his bent knees. It was a move that took no more than a little flexibility and the knowledge that it could be done.

Next it was a simple matter to pull his right leg in close and run his tied hands under then over the boot. It took a little more time to force himself to pull the injured left leg in tight for the maneuver.

The gash was bleeding through the bandages from the abuse. Larabee hissed in pain and clenched his eyes shut to get his hands out from under the injured leg. But in a space of a few breaths, Larabee had his hands in front of him. He crawled over to their captor and inter-twining his fingers together, delivered a final blow to the man's temple that sent him crashing to the ground like a sequoia.

The peacekeeper grabbed up the Bowie knife, steadied the hilt between the toes of his boots and used the sharp blade to quickly tear through the ropes that held his hands. Then he scurried over to his friend.

In the back of his mind there was a niggling concern that Buck hadn't made any move to help him. Buck was still leaning against the rock.

Chris cut the ropes holding the other man's hands then the ones at his legs. "Right. Let's move." Chris had a hand under the other man's upper arm to help him up. But Buck didn't move. "Buck, damn it,"

"I can't make it just now, Pard."

"The hell you can't." Immediately Larabee's focus changed. Wilmington never said he couldn't do something. Reflexively the older man's hand went to the brow then the cheek of the other's face. "Jeez, Buck, you're on fire." There was no response, although he knew that he had been heard.

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Ezra Standish had had fun, and this was not it.

The horsemen had ridden by without a glance at the water. He would count that as the good news. He figured he was due for Lady Luck to smile his way. He suspected it was more of a smirk because although he was safe, he was cold and wet and exhausted and alone.

He grabbed for the grass on the bank to pull himself out of the water. His hand squished into the mud at the roots of the plants. What he was sure was that the last civilized cell functioning in his brain notified him that he would never get all of that ooze out from under what had recently been perfectly manicured nails.

His knee reached the bank and he felt the liquid and wet earth seep into the material.

He grabbed again, this time with his right hand. More mud.

He rested his forehead on the back of his hand. Rest. Just for a moment. Then he would continue. He'd find it in himself to pull himself to his feet and get himself out of this mess like he'd done so many times in the past. On his own. By himself.

But first, just to spite them of course, to make sure that they knew he had survived on his own, perhaps he should ride back into town. He would make sure that Mr. Tanner wasn't still lying unconscious in the jail cell. And that Chris and Buck had made it back. And that young Mr. Dunne wasn't worrying himself unnecessarily. Just to spite them of course. Was he rambling? Talking to himself and on a tangent? He moved a little further up the bank.

He was losing track of time but the horses had been gone for some time, hadn't they?

Damn, it was cold. He shivered. Where was I? Oh, yes, saving myself. But I didn't really, did I? Messrs. Larabee and Wilmington had been a little help. Alright, more than a little. But where were they now? Where were they now? The question was like lightning down his spine. In response he quickly tried to rise, but felt nauseous and weak, and all over miserable. His back hurt. His arm hurt.

Nathan had scolded him once, like a child. Had said 'pain is nature's way of tellin' you somethin' is wrong. You need to pay heed.' Well, he'd like to pay heed, but the realization that Buck and Chris were missing was growing to something near panic.

He wanted to be thinking. Decisions needed to be made - all he could keep coming back to was the explosion, the horses bolting and danger. Where were Buck and Chris?

A hand came down on his shoulder. When he tried to fight he was as effective as a newborn kitten. To make things worse, his stomach roiled. The sudden cramps led to dry heaves and left him coughing, dizzy and trying to swipe saliva from his mouth with his filthy sleeve.

He was kneeling on the bank now. And again the touch of those hands registered. One was rubbing his back to ease the tension there and the other had a hold of his shoulder to help support him. Finally a voice broke through the gray cloud of pain that had settled behind his eyes.

"Ezra? C'mon, Ezra, breath through it. Try to tell me what's wrong."

"Mr. Tanner?"

"Easy."

He felt a canteen touch his lips and the cool, clean water rationed to him carefully. What are you doing Mr. Tanner, I'm trying to list the reasons to give up on my most recent participation with you in Four Corners, the most obvious one being that ya'll have already given up on me, and here you are. You haven't given up. Damn you.

He felt the buckskin jacket wrapped around him and was amazed how warm it was what with its residual body heat. He wanted to tell them all that had happened; that they needed to look for their friends. All that came out of his mouth as he felt the warmth drag him into sleep, was, "Chris... Buck..."

"I know, Ezra, I know." Tanner found his mind drifting back to the two unmarked graves and pulled the barely conscious man closer to him. The small body tremored with the wet and cold. "I know."

Tanner looked up at Josiah standing over them protectively and saw a sad acceptance reflected in the older man's eyes as he fingered the cross around his neck.

Josiah cursed the fog that refused to let go of its hold on the land.


	14. Chapter 15

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Larabee suddenly remembered what had been said about a scattergun and rough, calloused hands moved and lifted his old friend's shirt.

There were pellets embedded beneath the skin and damage where others had hit. The wide pattern and relatively mild damage told him the blast had come from a long distance off and lost much of its impact before it found its target. He thought back on the fetid water that Buck and Ezra had fallen into and the dirt and sweat that had to be adding to the damage.

But still and all, the infection and redness didn't seem to account completely for his friend's weakness. Again he grabbed his friend's arm and pulled. "Let's get you out of here."

The forced movement was more than Buck could handle. His stomach revolted against him in painful heaves.

Chris, fighting down a panic that came from worry and knowing their time was limited before the others returned, ran for a canteen and returned quickly. He doused some of the nearby bandages with the water before he handed the container to the younger man.

Buck took the canteen and rested it on the ground for a minute before trying to bring it to his lips. It was as if he didn't have the strength to do both in one smooth motion.

Larabee, with a tenderness mastered when his child was young, wiped the cloth across Buck's lips then helped him take some of the water. He wet more bandages and ran them across Buck's brow and down his neck. "We gotta move," he explained as if that would make it happen.

"One horse."

"I ain't leavin' you!"

"Hell, Chris," The other man caught a breath to continue. "You ain't leavin' me. You're goin' for help."

Larabee looked around his surroundings as if something somewhere would give him a direction; a course of action.

"You gotta find Ezra."

"The hell with..." Buck's look turned black and bitter. "What I mean is, I don't know where he is. I know where you are and you need help."

"He's alone, Chris, and he's hurt. You gotta find him before Miller and his men do."

Larabee wanted to find Ezra; wanted to tell the damn Southern cuss they were worried about him.

Larabee had spent three years living in the past. It was new to be forced to see how his actions and words would affect the future. It showed him that in the future was when he didn't want to hurt ever again like he had when he lost his family. But he'd gotten a glimpse of that pain when he had thought Buck was dead. And surprisingly, damnably, it had been just as painful to think he'd lost the gambler. To save himself from repeating that pain, he had been determined to save the men.

Now he was forced to choose between which one to save. Was there any logical way to decide?

Buck couldn't move at any speed. To try would mean only a matter of time before Miller's gang caught up with them again.

If he could find Standish, the two of them could come back and help Buck.

And take care of these men who had threatened his friends once and for all.

A fiery hatred and need for revenge began to stoke itself within his heart. Where once it had been merely a matter of removing a threat before him, now these men were making him chose between two of the handful of people he had come to care about. He didn't know how they'd worked their way into his heart. God knew he had fought it.

The notorious gunfighter wished for a moment that he'd never stopped that day in Four Corners. But where, in the not so recent past, that thought would have stayed with him, now it filtered in and was rejected. He knew now he was thankful for what he had in this upstart town.

He looked at his friend who was keeping a watch on him by force of will alone. The midnight blue eyes, hooded and tired, wanted nothing more than to closed and rest.

Buck would never forgive him and never understand if he didn't go look for Ezra. Just as he would never forgive himself if anything happened to his easygoing friend because of the choice he was about to make.

With a heavy sigh, and a warm hand comfortingly around Buck's neck, he conceded, "I'll be back."

"I'll be here."

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Josiah watched the tableau before him and wondered at the contradictions with a sort of numb acceptance.

Ever since he and Vin had gone scouting for clues and come upon their lost Southern lamb, there had been more questions than answers.

The way that Ezra had called weakly and helplessly for their two missing friends had torn a painful swath of resignation through the hope he had dared hold out that all three of the missing lambs survived.

It had been more true for him on behalf of the tracker.

Until that moment. the faith that things would work out had emanated from Tanner like a physical force; moreso even than young JD. For the finality to come to Vin first, as he tried to warm and comfort Standish, tested what little renewed faith Josiah had found. Someone, anyone should have been able to deal with the loss first and soften it for the tracker.

So now they all knew, though no one spoke the words, who lay beneath the two unmarked graves. So now they all stayed nearby seeking solace that at least one of their family was back with them.

At the same time they distanced themselves from each other through diverted glances and silence.

As thankful as they all were that Ezra now rested, even uneasily, among them, each fought the guilt as they wondered about the others, about "what if" and "how could this have happened".

They all wanted their friend to rest and recover his strength but they also needed him to awaken and tell them what had happened. Then, back around again, they realized the longer he slept, the longer they could avoid the story they were bound to hear.

Josiah stared at the campfire and watched the thin tendrils of smoke fight their way into the mist that still surrounded them. Finally his sad eyes rested on his injured friend who always seemed to cultivate his black sheep reputation. Too bad he couldn't see the dread and worry and concern in the faces of the others now or when they had ridden back into camp; expressions that would show how much they cared about a conman.

The Preacher thought back on how JD had been so proud of himself when he rode back into camp. He had cut the arm off of a rain slicker, tied one end tight and filled it with the magnesium sulfate Nathan dissolved in warm water. Then they had lightly bound the sleeve to the shank of Buck's mare's injured hoof. It successfully held the liquid around the puncture so it could do it's magic and pull the infection from the perforation.

Josiah would never forget the brief enthusiasm that had been on the boy's face when they rode back to camp and he thought to share his ingenuity. Josiah would never forget how that expression fell when he saw Ezra's battered body in the Preacher's arms. He would never forget how the expression and the boy folded in on themselves as the ramifications set in.

Now that Ezra was cleaned up and safe, JD spent a lot of time with the injured, gentle, easy-going mare.

The wounds on Ezra's body told a story. Only it was a mystery and the clues weren't adding up. The wet and tattered gray shirt that had once been spotless and white was noticed first. JD gasped when removing the shirt revealed the rope burns around his throat. There was no doubt what caused those.

Josiah and Nathan exchanged puzzled glances. How could he have survived such a near death experience when the others... Nathan turned his attention from that thought. He noticed the fever when he tried to wash the dry gray silt from Standish's body.

The dried mud turned noxious and black when the water touched it.

Tanner moved closer to examine the shotgun pellets as Nathan deftly removed the ones still embedded in the skin. The healer made a poultice of the same magnesium sulfate they'd used on the horse to draw out the poisons and sighed.

With the possible exception of JD, they all knew the rough triangular shape wasn't the usual pattern for a shotgun blast. Something, or someone, had absorbed part of the blast. Nathan had been dismayed to find the second wound to his friend's back.

Josiah gently held their unconscious friend to keep him clean and dry and warm while their healer worked on his back. All the while Ezra seemed to fight to awaken to say something. Slowly they meticulously cleaned and doctored the other cuts and bruises.

Finally Nathan sat back on his haunches and forced himself to meet the eyes of the others. "The shotgun took him from a distance. Both barrels. It'll be painful like..." He couldn't bring himself to verbally acknowledge the rope burns. "It needs to be kept clean..."

"But?" Tanner urged the rest of it.

"Don't none of it account for him bein' as sick as he is."

"Maybe from the explosion in town?" Josiah suggested.

"I don't know." The dark brown eyes regretfully drifted back to the unconscious man.

"You should know." The voice grated and didn't seem to belong to JD who was usually enthusiastic and ebullient.

Nathan looked up to meet the youngster's brown eyes as if he'd been slapped. What he saw there was deep, painful loss and an anger that things shouldn't be the way they were. "You should have been there to help him."

"JD."

"You made him think you didn't want to help him."

Nathan stood up and stared at the boy.

Josiah stood up and moved to intercept their youngest. But he was sidestepped and JD moved to face Nathan eye to eye. "He was innocent. You didn't care. How can you fix that?"

Josiah touched the brown tweed sleeve. JD jerked away and gave him a glare of defiance that came from somewhere most people wouldn't guess existed within the gentle soul. It filled the preacher with regret. "Then you turned on Buck 'cuz he knows how to be a friend and stood up to you and Chris both. Both of them... Ezra and Buck... they know... knew how to be..."

JD stopped himself when his own words filled him with the realization of what they may have lost that day. The young man staggered back, his eyes blinking wildly as he searched the ground for something to focus on. It was like another boy, not the angry one but their own, familiar JD stood before them. There were two boys in that body, fighting to see which one would grow up.

"Josiah?" The voice sounded small now. It no longer held the angry ring of a Chris Larabee. It didn't reflect any of his friends or what he'd learned from them. He sounded lost and alone.

"Yes, son?"

"What you said about anger? Why does it have to hurt so bad? Is that why Buck and Ezra let people get mad and don't say nothin' back? They don't want to cause that hurt?"

"I'm so sorry, son." It sounded hollow. But Josiah had no answer. They may have lost the chance to ever have the answer.

The young one nodded as if he hadn't expected any more from these men any longer, and walked slowly back to his friend's horse.

Josiah turned to Nathan, "He didn't mean..."

"He's right, Josiah." Nathan didn't want someone to make excuses for him.

"No one knew all this could happen."

"But I sure as hell have to live with it now, don't I?"

The preacher opened his mouth to speak. Nathan held up a hand to silence him. "I'm thinkin' I don't deserve any different." He too turned his back on the other peacekeepers and went to set vigil over his patient.

Vin Tanner watched in silence. To him anything that might be said would be too much and not enough. Nathan was being subjected to his raw feelings for his friends. The layers of prejudice and his past were stripped away and he remembered only the true sense of comradeship, of shared danger, shared accomplishment that couldn't be put into words. Now, was it too late?

Josiah seemed resigned to everything.

If the tracker had thought to be angry, he would have directed his anger at that one. He had shown no hope from the beginning, insulating himself from this moment. But then the anger faded. Vin Tanner himself had held much the same attitude until the last three years gradually changed him. He felt sorry for Sanchez that he seemed beyond being able to learn to hope again.

And JD? Hope personified, innocence lost.

There were two spirits struggling for that one right now. Chris and Buck. Two widely different life choices. For a moment Vin had feared Chris's influence was greater as the boy unleashed his feelings of loss on the healer. But maybe a part of Buck had stopped him. It was certainly Buck's influence that had him seeking comfort by tending another living thing to distract him from his own hurt.

Vin watched the boy stroke the mare, check the boot he'd made to help her heal. There was a struggle in that boy that would continue for some time.

Vin shut down when his mind started to touch on his own emotions. Live for the day, Tanner. All things, all events, are a part of the cycle of life. Stay in the moment, not how it effects the future. He looked up at the wide, wild sky and open range. In the past they had offered a sense of freedom. Now they made him feel so very small and alone.

He scanned the horizon again with a lost look in his eyes.

At first it was just a movement. Down there, by the water…

The tracker had insisted that they camp on the first high rise above the water source. It took away the easy proximity of the water, but gave them the high ground and a view of all around them. It was a precaution instilled in him by years of living with the People.

Vin straightened from where he'd been leaning against his horse and lifted his hat brim. His eyes focused like a terrier ready to go after a rat.

There it was again. Movement.

A sole rider pulled his big red gelding up to the water. Tanner barely took his eyes from the man as he mounted his own black.

Josiah, then Nathan and finally JD noticed the focus and determination that fairly thrummed through the tracker. "Stay here." It was an order. And he took off down the slope

Vin slid off of his horse and continued silently on foot. He was determined to take the man alive. They had determined earlier that something had happened at this site, an explosion and then the fact that Ezra had felt the need to come back here.

Now someone else had returned. Vin would take delight in making this one tell them what had happened so that Ezra wouldn't have to relive it all in the telling. They would know what had happened, what he had seen and then they would help the southerner through the memories.

Tanner hefted his mare's leg and appreciated it's comfortable familiarity. Yes, he would take the man alive. That's why he was using all of his skill as a hunter of man to approach him. But that didn't mean that he wouldn't hurt him if given the excuse. Or maybe even if he wasn't given it.

The man was on the opposite side of the saddleless horse. He was kneeling, looking for something. Vin could see most of the lean body from under the horse.

The bounty hunter inside him knew he hadn't made a sound and yet, with twenty yards still separating them, he saw the back and shoulders tense.

The man stood up. How the hell did he know?

The man came around the rust colored gelding's neck, ready to do battle.

Instinctively in the first split second, Tanner's eyes had gone to the hands. No weapons. Then the holster that was right there. It was empty.

So how could this man still have the familiar feel of danger? By the end of that first second, the tracker had met the eyes that were already staring at him with an unreadable quality.

The blonde hair, darker than usual and greasy with dirt and sweat and abuse hung in his eyes. The tense restrained anger, the need to do something, to take some course of action was readable in the body language.

"Chris?" Tanner slid the mare's leg into its holster and moved forward. Larabee limped to meet him.

"You all right?" The dark gunslinger asked.

The tracker lowered his head to let his hat hide the emotions and a relieved smile. He'd almost forgotten his fall from the roof. "Little achy all over. Think my body took that fall all equal like."

"Hard head took its share." There was a hint of amusement in the relief.

"I never felt better in my life," the tracker added. And Larabee knew it was because they were together. "You?" Vin asked finally, nodding at the ripped pants and bloody bandage.

"Nothin' that won't heal."

"Hell's fire, Larabee, you've had us thinkin'..." Tanner dropped his head to again to hide the emotion behind his hat.

"Payback's a bitch." The words came at the same time the younger man felt the cool, calloused hand around his neck. All this and Larabee'd been worried about me? The comfort he felt in this man's presence couldn't be put into words. Maybe that's why they needed so few between them. Hope surged again in the fact that Chris was making light of the situation. Already things weren't so bad after all.


	15. Chapter 16

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Vin Tanner couldn't hold back the smile as he rode back into camp with Chris Larabee at his side. He felt whole again. Everything would be made right.

Nathan felt like he was dreaming as he heard the two horses approach and looked up defensively. He saw Vin and Chris riding side by side as it should be.

He stood at the same time Josiah did. Nathan glanced quickly at his best friend to be sure he was seeing this too. Sanchez seemed lighter and taller. And the look on his face, as he suddenly believed in miracles, told him all he needed to know.

Josiah moved to meet the two men half way. Nathan stayed close to the gambler.

When he got close enough, the big man put his hands on their leader's shoulders and held him at arm's length and just... looked at him. Chris wore an embarassed smirk at the attention and the open thankfulness for his safety he saw on this big, soul-damaged man's face.

"It's good to see you, Chris," Josiah finally found his voice.

"You, too, Josiah," Larabee stated sincerely. Then he sidestepped the older man with a comradely pat on his arm when his eyes locked onto the unconscious southerner. He limped across the camp.

"Nathan." Their leader tore his eyes away from the wounded man long enough for the healer to know he was glad to see him.

"I need to look at that leg," was the response. Sometimes offering his healing skills was the only way Nathan knew to express all that he was feeling.

Larabee nodded. He understood. But he completely ignored his own condition and moved to kneel beside Standish. It was to the point he couldn't bend his injured leg, so he held it out to balance himself and reached over to feel the smaller man's fevered brow.

"What's wrong with him?"

"I don't know," Nathan repeated the words and remembered JD's reaction to them.

"Buck's got the same thing," Chris muttered worriedly.

Jackson's eyes cut from Ezra to Chris then up to Josiah, again trying to confirm through his friend that he wasn't imagining what he just heard. "Buck's alive, too?" Nathan whispered. He got his answer when he saw Vin, standing over them, beaming a huge smile.

Chris's expression was slightly apologetic. Vin had told him they had been beside themselves fearing the worst. Then he had been distracted by Ezra's condition. "He was too sick to move. And worried that Miller's gang was out looking for Ezra. I had to..." He left it at a shrug. To say the mere words that 'he had left his friend' didn't do his perceived sin enough justice. "Ezra," he barked, to change the subject. Vin had told him Nathan was concerned that the other man hadn't awakened. "Ezra, wake up."

And for some reason that voice broke through the exhaustion and illness. Ezra had known he needed to be awake, to do something or ask some specific question. That voice, demanding he find the strength to do what had to be done, and somehow promising the answers he needed, had the tired eyes fluttering to open.

"Come on, Ezra, that's a boy." A second voice, warm, comfortable, familiar, but not expected to be with the first.

The combination gave rise to even more of those damnable questions and his stubborn streak kicked in to get the answers. He opened his eyes and squinted. "Mr. Tanner?"

"Welcome back," the tracker smiled.

Nathan reached over to check the gambler's fever and was surprised when he jerked away like a skittish colt.

"Take it easy, Ezra. You're safe with friends." And the healer continued the move to put his hand on the other man's brow. If he noticed how hooded the still glassy eyes were, he put it off to the illness.

Josiah propped the smaller man up to offer him water. "I think he's coolin' off. Wish I knew what I was tryin' to treat."

"You said Buck's sick, too?" Josiah asked near Ezra's ear.

"Buck?" Ezra asked, he was almost panting with the effort.

"Are you feeling okay, Chris? Did they eat any thing you didn't?" He glanced at the gray, discarded shirt. "Drink any bad water?"

"Buck and Ezra fell in some stagnant backwater when the dynamite went off," Chris offered quickly. "Swallowed half that pool before they dragged themselves out." This fit too closely to what Josiah was asking. It had to mean something.

"I've seen it before. In India with my father. Bad water made people sick. It could kill them."

"The smell alone could have proven fatal," Ezra couldn't help adding that information.

"Yeah, yeah. I've seen it before, too." Nathan's mind was going over his medicines now that the clues had been put together. "I can ease the nausea, maybe the pain, but it's mostly got to run its course."

"Mr. Larabee," Ezra was tiring, but worked to get the words out. "Mr. Wilmington?"

"We're going after him now," he assured his ailing friend. "All you have to do is rest and get better." Larabee laid his calloused hand against the gambler's cheek to check the fever for himself.

Somehow that touch and that tone of voice, as rare as they were, as soothing as a lullaby, told the outcast more about the depth of their leader's concern and devotion than any words that could be spoken between this kind of men. And as much as the smaller man wanted to stay awake and get his questions answered, to help, he was lulled into a peaceful, healing sleep.

Chris's green eyes met Vin's blue ones as he remembered something else. "Where's JD?"

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Nathan hadn't been happy about it. He had tried to demand that Larabee let him treat that leg. Chris refused and further infuriated the healer by insisting that he go alone to reassure JD.

He left the dark man muttering something about when he had to amputate the leg he was going to do it just below the neck.

Larabee tried to hide a small smirk brought on by Nathan's fussing. No reason to infuriate their healer even more. Any humor left his face when he found JD.

The young man was completely focused on Buck's horse. He couldn't hear the words, but the boy was offering a constant soothing dialogue to the mare as he brushed her and checked for swelling on her injured hoof. He was absorbed with what he was doing and seemed okay.

That was until Chris put a comforting hand on his shoulder. The boy put his forehead against the horse. It was as if he could handle the emotions alone, but as soon as someone was there to help him, he couldn't keep up the front any longer. "JD?"

It took a moment for the voice to register. JD spun around so fast he almost lost his balance and found himself resting against the mare. "Chris?" He touched the man's black sleeve as if making sure he wasn't a ghost. "You're alive!"

Chris nodded. "Nathan says you're doing a good job with Buck's horse."

The kid was about to lose it. He was trying to be brave in front of his hero. "What say you leave Paladin here long enough to go with us and bring Buck back to help?"

That took some time to sink in and then a little more time for JD to dare to believe what he'd heard. "Buck's alive?" The young man asked in a whisper, his dark bangs in his eyes, his voice shaking, almost backing away from the man in front of him.

The hardened gunfighter gave the boy a small smile and nodded. He watched the youngster try to be strong and unemotional, as if that's what he had learned was the way men should act. To hell with that, Larabee thought to himself and pulled the youngest of their group to him in a tight hug. The boy was grateful and fell into the comfort and thankfully took some of that offered strength to fortify himself.

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JD was like a magpie as he followed Larabee back into camp. He was hyperactive in his relief and enthusiasm and even more talkative than usual. "... but we found your guns and Buck's hat - we've got them here...And then your coat. I'll get them. I better make sure Buck knows his hat's in one piece. We were worried. There were..." He was never going to speak of those graves again so he changed his own subject.

"But Vin said that Ezra said that he would never bet against you and Buck together. And he said - Vin I mean - said throwing Ezra in the mix, well, he wasn't going to give up on you. It was harder, I think, wondering what had happened more than if we'd just known. Especially now that Vin was right. I guess if... Ezra! You're awake! How you feeling?" JD ran ahead of their leader.

Nathan, Josiah and Vin had been hiding their smiles and occupying themselves by saddling the horses. They knew the nonstop chatter would be driving Chris to distraction. Oh well, it was good to teach him patience.

Josiah placed Buck's saddle on the red appaloosa for Chris.

Josiah had known there would be no keeping Vin back. He needed to ride with Larabee almost as much as he had to go see for himself that Buck was safe and bring back their missing friend. He also had no doubt that the leg wound that was slowly weakening the tall gunfighter wasn't going to hold him back from this task. Nathan needed to go to check on Buck's injuries.

If there had been any way to keep JD in camp, Josiah would have taken it. The boy would take too many risks to keep everyone safe now that he was this close to having them all back. But he knew the boy wouldn't stay. So he was saddling the young sheriff's horse so they could leave as soon as possible.

Josiah would stay with Ezra, keep him warm and on a healing path, and protect him to the point of killing every one of Miller's remaining men if they happened on the camp.

Just as his thoughts wandered back to the southerner, he heard JD call out to Ezra and turned with the others. "Ezra, what the hell are you doing up?" He bellowed as he hurried to support the gambler who was standing, but on very shaky legs.

"Mr. Larabee... made mention of... a rescue attempt," the smaller man responded. He accepted the support Sanchez offered, a sure sign that he was still weak and sick.

"I didn't mention 'attemptin'' nothin'," Larabee responded gruffly, already getting back to his old self. "And you ain't goin'."

Ezra was too tired to hide the hurt in his eyes. Why had they come after him, saved him, if they still felt like that? And what had that been earlier with Chris? He'd seemed concerned. Riding out and putting all this behind him was not the first thought he had wanted to filter back into his plans when he awoke. But it sounded good right now. "Perhaps," he began, and had to fight to get each word out, "we can discuss exactly when... I am good enough... to ride... with you... and at what times... I am merely a gambler and .. a cheat... not to be... trusted ..."

"Ezra," Larabee tried to interrupt as he moved toward the man who was quickly losing his battle to remain standing.

Josiah almost stepped in on his younger friend's behalf, but the look their leader threw him kept him silent. He wouldn't hesitate to stand up against the man when he felt it was called for, but there was something more in this glance than the usual anger. It had the big preacher's curiosity up so he would wait.

Ezra wasn't being stopped. "... But we will not... set those...parameters... until I have... gone after my...friend." For one who usually hid so much, when he wanted to, he could put a hell of a lot into his tone of voice. He made it clear now that despite all the doubts he harbored right now about these men, he was equally certain that Buck Wilmington was a friend.

Larabee invaded the smaller man's personal space, met his eyes, but didn't speak.

Ezra didn't back down. He waited.

"I don't like many people." The degree of understatement in that comment reflected on the faces of all the men listening, but none so much as Standish, who gave a sarcastic smirk. "If we ride together, we're friends. Wouldn't be, otherwise. Not Judge Travis, not Buck, or Vin or you makes me ride with someone I don't trust. No matter what. No matter how much I say the wrong thing. No matter how much you drive me nuts." Chris let his glare bore into Standish so that the truth of his words was unmistakable and permanent.

Ezra couldn't believe that the trust of one man could mean so much to him. He couldn't process the emotions and thoughts. It would take some time.

Chris could tell Ezra wasn't used to this kind of faith. He understood. Strong, gentler emotions were equally as difficult for him. So he decided to let the Southerner off the hook. "Let's figure how it's all Buck's fault, anyway, letting me get away with being such a jackass for so long and not calling me on it."

Ezra smiled thankfully. This one knew he was struggling with this turn of events and the new emotions they triggered. It wasn't a full smile, not the one that showed his mischievous dimples and gold tooth, he was too tired. But it was a sincere smile and not a sardonic smirk. "Perhaps I shall... have to... educate Mr. Wilmington... on pointing those traits .. out to you more...clearly."

"I have no doubt," Chris smiled back. Then he turned serious. "But, Ezra, you can't ride with us this time. You're too sick. You're the one they're looking for. They might hesitate to cause as much trouble if they don't see you but... I don't want to have to answer to Buck if..."

He stopped as Ezra's legs finally gave out.

The dark gunslinger reached out quickly and helped Josiah lower him to the ground. His wounded leg was continuing to stiffen up and he had to place it awkwardly.

"Why didn't you just say so?" Ezra responded, finally acknowledging he didn't have the strength to travel. But now what he did have was a new confidence that Chris Larabee would go to hell and back to rescue any of them and a new found security that allowed him to stop fighting the darkness and drift back to sleep.

"It's a bit like the influenza, food poisoning and the worst hangover you can imagine," Josiah explained, apparently from personal experience. "He's through the worst of it."

Vin moved forward to help Larabee lever himself up, disadvantaged as he was by his injured leg. "Don't suppose I could use any of that same argument to get you to stay here?" He drawled as he nodded at his friend's bandaged calf.

Larabee walked toward the horses as if he hadn't even heard. But Vin saw the expression and read it, Ezra don't owe Buck as much as I do. So the Texan followed and mounted as well, vowing to himself that he would keep everyone safe, having been give the second chance to do so.

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"Don't seem right. Don't make sense," JD muttered as he paced back and forth behind Vin and Nathan.

The tracker and the healer, patience and gentleness, were prone behind one of the granite outcroppings that were common to the area. They allowed the youngster to work off his nervous energy, as long as he stayed far enough back as to not attract attention.

The older men watched the camp below them.

Buck was hunched over and still leaning against a boulder, similar to the ones they hid behind. Apparently no one had returned to the camp.

The only other man present was the one called Red. He was doing something near the fire. They seemed to be in a heated conversation, but the voices didn't reach to the rise.

"I mean," the young sheriff continued as he hunched down beside Nathan in frustration, "I understand if you don't trust me to sneak around behind and protect Buck, but Vin could have... or you...I mean, Chris is hurt and he's got to be moving slow and..."

"JD," Vin answered matter-of-factly, "Ain't you or me who thinks we left Buck behind when we should have stayed."

JD stared. That wasn't true, Chris hadn't left Buck, but if Chris felt that way... he plopped down beside the older men and tried to wait as patiently as they were.

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Larabee had insisted that someone work around near the water, nearer Buck before the others rode into the camp. Someone needed to be there to cover their partner in case all hell broke loose.

He knew Buck was still at least as sickly as Ezra. The big man was leaning up against the rock despite his obvious weakness. Buck wouldn't lie down when he was ailing or injured, not if he was conscious or had any strength to prop himself up. He still didn't even like to find himself on the cot in Nathan's clinic.

When he was sick or hurt, he didn't want to be in a vulnerable position. It was something from his childhood. Chris had never asked, and suspected he didn't want to know.

Larabee wondered in passing if his oldest friend would rest once Nathan was tending him. He hoped so, but it was surprisingly easy to lose the lanky gunfighter's trust.

Once Buck felt that trust had been betrayed or he got the impression he had misplaced it, the gentle gunfighter was slow to trust again. Which, when Chris thought about it, increased his sense of wonder that Buck's faith in him, often tested, had never wavered.

Larabee was almost in position, now, behind the boulder, between the camp and the water. His leg was stiffening up and he couldn't completely ignore the throbbing pain.

A little closer and he could rest.

He could hear parts of the conversation between Buck and Red. "You can't save both of them," Buck was insisting. "And if the older one plays this out against Chris Larabee, he's going up against himself in more ways than one. And he'll die."

"So what am I supposed to do? Tell him revenge is useless? That he needs to find other things to live for?" Chris heard the words, then Red's voice lowered. He missed part of the conversation until the voice was raised again. "Don't you think I've tried?"

Chris was closer to his friend now and heard the response. "You can't tell him what he don't want to hear. And that kind of loss, of family..."

"What the hell do you know about it?"

There was a pause before Wilmington answered quietly, "I know you've done a hell of a job saving even one of those boys. Trying to save one, you'd have to be a hell of a man to get through to him. Trying to keep two alive and showin' 'em how to look forward to life again, and making the boy see what you're saying…"

"I came so close to leavin', to givin' up on them so many times..." the gruff voice confided to the stranger leaning against the rock.

"But you didn't. And you got through to the kid. I can see it. You're a better man than me. A better man than most I've met."

Larabee was having to keep his head down as he crabbed his way into position. He couldn't risk being spotted.

He had his gun. As good as his word, JD had kept it for him, even cleaned it.

But he didn't want Buck, unarmed, in the crossfire. He was closer now. The conversation was clearer and it made Larabee singularly uncomfortable though he didn't want to think on why.

"What else could I have done?" Red asked defensively.

"You've done a hell of a job. You never had a chance of savin' two of them. The only thing I know for sure is that you grab onto the young 'un. You remember he cared enough about you to listen and see what you were sayin'. Hold on to the one you can save."

With a flash of insight that sent a shiver down his spine, Larabee wondered if this was why Buck had recently been migrating toward Ezra and, of course, JD, instead of his old friend.

Had Buck finally given up on their friendship? His time to dwell on it was cut short as the other man's voice was raised again.

"That's bullshit, mister. And I ain't buyin' it. None of it." The tone of voice was anger stoked by denial. Larabee recognized it well. It was a dangerous combination and drew Chris's eyes to the scene.

The disillusioned shootist's blood froze in his veins.

The big gray bearded man was behind Buck with his damn Bowie knife positioned at his back.

"NO!" Tore from his throat and he lunged across the boulder, taking the bigger man at the shoulders and tackling him to the ground.

Buck worked his way around to see what was causing the disturbance behind him. He saw Chris Larabee beating on Red as if he was taking out all of his pent up frustration on the man.

But Red was savvy and a survivor. He reached down and grabbed Larabee's calf so that his thumb bit deep into the wound there. With a stifled curse, the notorious gunfighter rolled off the man and away from the pain.

"Chris, don't," Buck's voice came from somewhere.

Wilmington, who could only make it to his hands and knees, was trying to get to the two combatants, when suddenly the camp was filled with horses.

At first he was worried that it was Miller riding back in, then he saw Nathan pulling Chris off of his victim and back so that he could look at that leg.

Vin and JD had their guns on Red. "No," Buck ordered. "Don't shoot."

"He was coming after you with a knife, damn it, Buck!" Larabee bellowed.

"Somebody's got to see to his back! You cold cocked me and ran out before I could..."

Chris was struggling against Nathan to get back to the fight; infuriated by the implication that leaving his friend was self-serving or endangered the other man. Red stood up in anticipation of another attack despite the guns on him.

"Stop it!" Buck roared, and then fell to his elbows, his strength used up.

"Nathan?" Relief and worry vied with each other in JD's voice. He kept his gun on their prisoner, but immediately moved to kneel beside his best friend. He put a comforting hand on Buck's back and tried to lean down enough to see the man's eyes.

Vin took command. "Stay put," he ordered Larabee with a voice that wouldn't be ignored. "Nathan, see to Buck. JD, cover this one. Stay put, Chris. I mean it."

Despite the warning in the voice, Chris moved. But he went to Buck instead of trying again for Miller's man.

Tanner tied Red's hands in front of him and seated him near enough that keeping watch on him still allowed the tracker to keep account of Nathan's prognosis for Buck.

JD's usefulness would be questionable until he knew more about their friend's condition.

Buck recoiled when Nathan reached out to check his fever. "It's okay, Buck, it's just me," Nathan whispered comfortingly. But even with that recognition, Buck continued to pull away until he couldn't get any further because Chris was holding him in place.

Nathan was sorrowed by the realization that Buck knew whom he was moving away from. Like Ezra had. And the skittish action reminded him starkly of Buck's mare when she flinched, as Vin's finger had first run across that mesquite thorn. Such a small wound on the outside, barely visible. And barely noticeable. But deep and potentially life threatening if it wasn't tended quickly and precisely. "C'mon, Buck, lie down and let me look at your back."

Buck hesitated and Chris sighed. So there were bridges to be rebuilt. "Hey," He said gently to his old friend, "you stubborn cuss, lean over here and let Nathan help you."

Tiredly, Buck rested against Chris's shoulder and let Nathan lift his shirt for a first look at his back and arm. Larabee took the opportunity to put his head back against the cool boulder and close his eyes. Maybe he could rest for a moment. He knew where they all were now.

"He's right," Nathan said, referring to Red's earlier statement as he looked at the swollen and infected pellet wounds. "There's shot still here that's gotta come out."

That confirmation seemed to remind Buck that the other man was in their midst. "You okay, Red?"

Suddenly Larabee realized that Buck liked this man. He cracked one eyelid to look down at his oldest friend. "Buck, you'd make friends with the Devil himself."

The smile that was shot at him in reply clearly insinuated that Buck sometimes thought that he may have done exactly that the day he started riding with Chris Larabee.

And the small smile that he got in return, mostly from the gunslinger's eyes, you had to look for it on his lips, acknowledged he'd asked for that response.

"Hey, Kid, you're awful quiet." The ladies' man turned tired eyes to his youngest friend.

JD knew he had what Buck called a goofy look on his face. But here was his best friend, Nathan making sure he'd get well, Chris taking care of him the way Buck himself so often tended to JD, and Vin standing there watching over them. He couldn't put it into words.

JD glanced over at Tanner. He was met with a big grin and a sparkle in those blue eyes. Vin understood what JD was feeling.

"Ezra!" The lanky scoundrel took in his surroundings. Two were missing. "Josiah?" Buck abruptly turned back to Chris and tried to rise.

Both Larabee and Nathan moved to grab him and calm him back down.

"Safe," Nathan reassured him.

"Where are they?"

"Buck, settle down. We've got a camp..."

Chris and Nathan, in an attempt to calm their friend and force him to relax, were unintentionally confrontational. Buck, no different from the others, balked at being manhandled into compliance, even by friends, even for his own good.

Vin hunkered down in front of them and put his hand on Wilmington's shoulder with a light touch. It drew the gunfighter's eyes to the ex-bounty hunter.

"What say we all get back up to high ground? Make sure Josiah and Ezra ain't drivin' one the other loco?" The younger man smiled gently. "Then you'll let Nathan take care of you? We'll even tie Ole Chris down - get his leg tended proper." Tanner knew Larabee's health was a hole card to play to influence Buck.

Once the decision and control was given back to him, their wounded partner conceded to go along with the group.

Vin kept a reassuring arm around Wilmington's shoulders after he helped him stand.

Nathan helped Larabee to his feet in deference to the swelling and darkly bruised leg.

Damn Larabee chided himself. Damn He had just been recalling that the stubborn so-and-so fought being forced to do anything, especially in a weakened condition. If he was smart enough to figure those things out, why wasn't he smart enough to play to them like Vin did? But he was thinking about it now, wasn't he? There was something within him changing, possibly coming back to life.

The somber gunfighter pulled his thoughts back to the present to see that Jackson was giving the tracker one last scowl. Clearly he would prefer to start the treatment right away.

Tanner's smile reflected amusement at the healer's annoyance. But he felt uncomfortable and it showed in his eyes. They were still separated. At least now it was more by distance than confrontation among themselves, but Miller's men, what was left of them, were still united in action and word. The tracker wanted his people together.

Nathan Jackson couldn't read all of that in the tension of the former bounty hunter, but what he did see was intense enough for him to give in to the move.

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	16. Chapter 17

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Josiah had the sleeve off of Buck's mare's injured hoof again, letting it dry out. He sat back on his haunches and waited patiently. The puncture looked healthy. It was up to the big gray now to work past the remembered pain, put some weight on it and discover the pain had lessened.

The Preacher's son slid a side glance to the slight man nearby. Ezra had insisted they keep up the protocol they'd established to treat Pal.

It needed to be done and it kept them distracted at least a little from their absent friends. So as long as they were together and Josiah could protect the other man if a threat arose, he was glad they had something to pass the time.

Josiah had built a fire. On the surface it had been to heat more water for the magnesium sulfate. But he was glad to see the younger man had inched closer to it.

He saw similarities between the horse and the erstwhile loner. They both would have to test their wounds, physical and emotional before they would realize they were healing.

Standish's eyes were focused on the horse. It was almost as if he were trying to will it to get better. But a closer look showed that he was focused on other thoughts beyond the moment.

"Mr. Sanchez," The southerner finally spoke. His voice held an unfamiliar quality. "Could you possibly explain a dichotomy to me? Even if you or I should not appreciate the answers?"

"I think I could do that, Ezra."

"Why are you here?"

Josiah was surprised by the question and wasn't quite sure what he was being asked.

Ezra, adept at reading expressions, knew what was going through the older man's mind. He hurried to explain himself. Otherwise, he might lose his nerve to hear the answer. "I don't mean to downplay my appreciation of your timely assistance. However, the popular reaction to the accusations these men made against me last night left me with the distinct impression that our esteemed leader and associates might actually prefer to assist Mr. Miller in putting put the noose around my neck."

Josiah couldn't help but laugh, a full, rolling laugh. Ezra clearly wasn't expecting that response. "Mr. Sanchez..."

"I'm... I'm sorry... Ezra... you, it's just that you seemed so serious."

"I'm questioning my position in this alliance. I find that serious. You find it amusing?"

"Oh, the trials and tribulations of the only child."

"Sir, you have taken leave of your senses."

"You don't have the frame of reference you need to understand siblings. They are unmerciful in knowing and pointing out the shortcomings of their brothers and sisters. The older brother is probably the worst and focuses on the more rebellious of the family to keep them in line. But if anyone else so much as looks cross-eyed at the others, the older brother will stake the culprit out on a red ant bed."

"Mr. Sanchez," Ezra, disgustedly repeated his original phrasing, "could you possibly explain a non-sequitur to me? Even if you or I should not appreciate the answers? What the hell does family have to do with Chris Larabee disparaging me at every damn turn?"

Josiah only laughed harder. "Does he let any else do it? Think about it."

Josiah was highly satisfied with the "what just happened here" expression on his young friend's face. He had his own little secret agenda - to see how many times he could dumbfound the smooth southerner. Each time seemed to chip away at those walls erected around fragile emotions so many years ago.

Any more conversation was interrupted by the sound of horses entering the camp. Josiah's gun was up and down in the same movement as he recognized the incoming riders as his lost flock.

The elder of the Magnificent Seven recognized the prisoner as the one who had cared for that young Kyte Miller. Red rode in the lead, alone on the appaloosa. Vin followed. Larabee rode double with the tracker. Buck rode double with the young sheriff.

Sanchez smiled. It would be first frost before their youngest let the scoundrel out of his sight. That had some visuals popping into Josiah's head - Buck trying to get time alone for al his reasons, JD walking in on the older man at inopportune moments, Buck chasing the boy down in retaliation.

The bear-like Preacher's son was already smiling in anticipation. He truly enjoyed the vitality and the disruptions these men could inflict on the town's existence. Not just Buck and JD, but all of the ones he'd chosen to throw in with.

Nathan, riding where he could keep an eye on all of the injured men, was off his horse as soon as they came to a stop. He hurried over to Buck. The gangly shootist was able to get off the horse on his own, but still too weak to keep on his feet without help.

Josiah watched the scene unfold. He couldn't hear the others yet. But he didn't need words. Nathan was able to slide a supporting shoulder under Wilmington's left arm. Mainly because that one was too busy to noticed. He was in a lively argument with JD.

The young man would no doubt be sniping about the other not waiting for help. Or he was on him about being so sick or so weak or so stubborn, or worrying them. The older man would be trying to reassure his friend and bypass all the attention. It made him uncomfortable. Unless it came from a woman.

Tanner threw his leg over the saddle horn to hop down and offered Chris what support he would take in getting off the horse. Not much, Josiah observed as Chris threw his good friend a glare and insisted he hold his own weight. If that one didn't stop pushing himself he would wind up worse off than the other two.

When Chris craned his neck around to check on Wilmington, Tanner simply smiled and put a supportive arm around Chris's waist, completely ignoring the response.

Oops, oops, oops Josiah thought to himself humorously. He glanced over to see if Ezra was watching. He was. And he was reading the same thing with a highly amused twinkle in his eye: Buck Wilmington must have just been told about the mare being injured and clearly intended to head that way.

Nathan, long suffering when it came to the stubborn streak these men shared, was against it.

Whatever was being said between the scoundrel and the healer, caused their leader to lower his head, as if counting to ten. Tanner was still smiling.

When their leader spoke, Jackson threw his hands up in disgust.

Wilmington fought to keep any gloating out of his expression.

Josiah's wide grin reflected on the gambler's face. They were anticipating the healer's reaction when he discovered his other patient was already with the horse.

On the way to the string of horses, Buck realized Nathan was supporting him. He didn't need help. Especially from Nathan right now. He hadn't had time to think too much on the words that had passed between them in town. Until he did, he didn't want to be any more obligated than he had to. And he didn't want Nathan's help if it was offered because the ex-slave thought he was obligated to offer it.

So as not to be obvious about his thoughts, the tall gunfighter disentangled himself from both men supporting him. He headed forward on his own.

JD was confused and frustrated at the show of independence. Buck damn well wouldn't let him get away with that if positions were reversed.

Nathan had sensed that the moment his help was recognized, it created tension. Again he regretted the words he couldn't take back.

Josiah and Ezra both recognized why Wilmington sloughed off the assistance. Ezra bit his bottom lip and started to get to his feet. Josiah waved him back down and moved forward. He would handle this.

Standish sat on the boulder instead of beside it. He was surprised how his muscles trembled at even that slight exertion.

Standish watched Josiah move forward to support Wilmington under the guise of a handshake and brotherly arm around his shoulders. The greeting was accepted with a casual, "Hey, Josiah." As if they'd just seen each other at breakfast and nothing interesting had happened since. Then he turned toward the horse. "Hey there, girl, hear you're not doing so good?" The gray shook her head in response to the familiar voice. For all the world it looked like she was answering her master.

Buck rubbed her nose, then inside and behind both ears and looked into her eyes. Then he slid a hand down toward Paladin's injured leg. He had most of his weight supported by the lame horse so he could lean over without falling to the ground.

Josiah came to the horse's rescue and supported Buck as Nathan lifted the hoof for the mustached shootist to examine the damage.

"She's got a good appetite," Josiah offered.

"Looks to be healing better than I could hope," Nathan added.

"I appreciate it, Nathan," Buck offered, sincerely but still with a distance between them.

"Vin and JD came up with the treatment. I only followed directions."

Buck nodded his appreciation to them all and continued to pet the mare. Damn He was getting tired.

Nathan knew both Chris and Buck were going to have to rest soon. At least that damn southerner was sitting down.

Finally the dark haired man who had more childhood in him than most ten year olds smiled as his eyes fell on the gambler. He wasn't sure how best to express his relief at seeing their friend safe. "I won't mention how loco it was to ride out with those men."

"I won't mention how crazy it was to leap into a snow-fed, raging river." Ezra deadpanned.

"I won't mention how stupid it is to drink half a river of bad water."

"I won't mention how insane it is to intentionally incur the wrath of Mr. Larabee." Ezra was enjoying this.

Chris was more than ready to rise to the bait. He was hurt and tired and hungry and sleepy. He wanted a drink and a smoke. "How 'bout you both..."

"Enough!" Nathan interrupted before another word could be spoken. "You three are going back to camp. And I don't care if I have to let that horse lay down and cuddle up with Buck in his bedroll, you are all getting some rest!"

Buck's surprised laugh quickly turned into a raspy cough. Josiah and JD both moved to his side.

Nathan took the few steps to grab the gambler. "I swear if there was ever a more stubborn, ornery lot..." It was all Nathan got to say before a bullet slammed into the rock between Ezra and himself. Reflexively, he grabbed the smaller man and catapulted them both to safety behind the outcropping.

Jason Miller, murder in his eye, rode into the middle of Four Corner's regulators, followed by his kid brother and his men. They all had guns drawn and firing.

JD jumped in front of Buck. Then Vin was in front of them both and his mare's leg echoed across the prairie. "Get to cover."

Josiah grabbed their gangly friend and dragged him behind the boulder.

Chris, gun already drawn and returning fire, grabbed Red by his collar and spun their prisoner behind the granite beside Buck. Then he grabbed JD long enough to meet his eyes and demand. "You stay here. Don't leave Buck."

He didn't wait for acknowledgment before he scrambled behind a tree line to separate them and keep them from being one singular target. The adrenaline all but numbed any pain he had been feeling in his leg.

Miller's men dismounted and sought cover themselves. Jason stayed on his horse and meticulously fired at any target that presented itself.

Vin rolled behind a small fallen tree, the only cover readily available. Miller's bullets bit pieces out from where Vin's head stayed low behind the wood.

Then Miller was again slamming bullets into the cover that protected Ezra.

"Miller!" Chris stood and called to the man to attract the attack on himself and give his friend a reprieve.

Jason obliged, as did two of his hired guns.

Chris swung back behind the sycamore trees and listened to the bullets thud into the bark that protected his back.

Buck, without a gun, tried to look up and see where everyone was. JD shoved his head back down. "I got it. I got it." And he found a target in the person of one of Miller's men.

Nathan, on the other end of the boulder, covering Ezra, saw one of his bullets stampede all of the horses except the one's staked out and the one Jason still had pirouetting near the fire. Ezra saw a gun lying beside the man JD brought down. It was within ten feet of their cover.

Before Nathan knew what was happening, Ezra crabbed his way to the gun, grabbed it and rolled to a new cover location beside the ex-bounty hunter.

"Ezra you damn fool!" Nathan called, but he was helpless to pull the man back as a swarm of bullets forced him back beside Buck and JD.

Tanner never looked down or took his eyes from the conflict as he drawled, "Take a chance like that again and I'll tan your hide to the saloon wall," Ezra smiled and looked for a target. A shot from Standish flushed a second man and Vin took him down.

Buck and Red were both trying to see what was going on, and get sight of Kyte.

Kyte had nothing on his mind but working around the melee and getting to Red and getting him away from these men.

Vin raised his gun toward Jason. Kyte, seeing this, took a shot on the run that forced Tanner back to his meager cover.

Jason didn't know where his brother was. He was barely aware when a third man went down, this time to Chris Larabee's aim.

With a primal scream, he spun out of his saddle. He put his horse between himself and every one but Larabee. Somewhere along the way, his hatred for Standish had gradually been displaced by this man. This man who protected the murderer. This man in whom he saw so much of himself. This man who fought to protect those with whom he had formed an alliance instead of fighting for revenge.

Jason bet the son of a bitch knew where each of his men were, even now in the heat of battle. Jason himself hadn't even been able to keep up with his own brother. The hate was all consuming. It went past any other emotion.

So, protected from the other men, Jason holstered his .45 and turned to meet Larabee's eyes.

Larabee recognized everything that was this young man. The words he had heard from Ezra and Red and Buck had formed the image.

Larabee had survived long enough and had friends strong enough to drag him through the totally self-destructive years and indiscriminate hatred. But Larabee understood all consuming hatred. And while he had learned to control it, to a limited degree in relation to his friends, this young man was threatening those friends. And there would be no mercy.

Larabee stood with the fluid grace of a predator. He, too, holstered his weapon. At that moment his friends knew this was his battle alone. He had accepted the challenge. No one was allowed to get in his way.

"Oh, God, no." Red saw what was happening. He tried to get to his feet.

Buck threw his entire body against the larger man to hold him in place.

And then it was over.

Jason drew first, and cleared leather, and got a shot off. But Larabee was faster, his aim more true.

JD's mouth was open in stunned wonder. He had never seen the draw before. He'd heard about it as if it were a legend. He didn't know anyone could be as fast as Larabee had just shown himself. Buck closed his eyes, regretting the part of his friend that gave no quarter and asked none.

Jason's realization that he was dying and the death came almost simultaneously. He only had time to smile; at peace, at last, for the first time in years.

Maybe that was it after all. He had hated this man, this Larabee, above the other, not because the older man shared his lost soul, but because the older man had pushed past it all. Jason hated Larabee, but somehow knew the dark gunfighter could give him this peace.

Buck held tightly to the foreman who still struggled to get to his fallen charge, his failure, his lost heart. Buck had just seen his worst nightmare played out in this man's life. Buck knew that this wasn't the time for words, that nothing would break through that mental anguish, but his hold became more comforting for all the strength he had to maintain to keep the man from doing everything in his power to follow that one in death.

"Nooooo!" Red screamed suddenly and fought with renewed strength to get free. Wilmington didn't know he had closed his eyes, but he knew only a few seconds had passed. He followed the man's eyes and saw it.

Kyte had almost made it to his friend when his brother had fallen; was only a few feet from Red and Buck. This had him behind Larabee.

He had his gun in his hand and it wavered up and down, between Chris's back and the ground. His eyes showed almost physical shock. They were more on his brother's body than his killer.

JD, drawn by the men's attention saw the same thing. "Chris!" He shouted, understanding nothing but that Chris had just killed the young man's brother, and that JD himself would kill anyone who dared take any of his brothers away from him.

"Chris!" He screamed again. The tone of voice told Larabee all he needed to know. There was another threat. The infamous gunslinger spun to confront the danger.

Buck didn't give it much rational thought. He propelled himself from his position and did what he couldn't allow Red to do. He hit Kyte at an angle that put his own body between Larabee and the boy and then plunged them both to the ground and out of the line of fire.

Kyte tried to pull his trigger.

JD and Ezra watched, horrified. Vin and Nathan instinctively moved that direction.

Larabee's instincts were to kill, to destroy the menace. Nothing could break through that - except the realization that one second he had been aiming at the danger and now he was aiming at Buck's back.

He didn't know why, or how, but that was unacceptable.

He couldn't stop his finger from completing the trigger pull. But he was able to raise his arm enough that the shot went harmlessly over their heads.

Larabee was standing, trembling at the nearness of what had almost happened. His gun was at his side. He was aware that Buck was rocking that boy. And when Red came and took the lanky gunman's place, he saw Nathan cut the ropes that had bound his hands.

Vin helped Buck stand up and move away to give the other two privacy in their grief.

By that time Larabee could move again. He had reholstered his gun and moved toward the others.


	17. Chapter 18

**I was just told that this last chapter was missing (thanks Tammster62). I don't know how long it's been this way or how that happened, but here is the last chapter. I hope it is worth the wait for those who haven't read it.**

By that time Larabee could move again. He had reholstered his gun and moved toward the others.

Buck knew it was coming, like Texas thunderstorms rolling in over the plains dark and threatening. But it was worth it.

Larabee's roundhouse punch would have decked him if he'd been healthy. As it was it spun him almost completely around before he hit the ground. No sooner had he met the dirt and registered the new pain in his back, than calloused hands pulled him up again by his collar. The straw-like blonde hair was in Larabee's eyes and he was furious. "You can't save everybody. Most ain't worth it. None's worth you gettin' yourself killed," he hissed, shoved himself away from his friend and waited for the excuse.

Buck smiled, that wide, sincere grin that was infectious to almost everyone else. "Been thinkin'. I'm pretty sure, no, no I'm real sure. It was that other fella's bullet what killed Trevor Daniels back at the saloon. This boy didn't do more than break a beer mug."

No one could infuriate Chris Larabee like this man. He opened his mouth several times, closed it again several times. From the corner of his eye, he noticed that JD was slowly moving in between Buck and himself. The little whelp was prepared to take him on in defense of the obstinate, maddening, quixotic partner who just continued to grin at him now.

Finally the infamous gunfighter stalked away.

But JD was angry as much as his hero and out of the same fear. He would defend the man from Larabee, but was not above a verbal attack of his own. "What was that, Buck? That was stupid. You'd just seen how fast Chris is." He looked for more words. "What kind of patience has he had to keep from killing you all these years?"

"I dodge a lot." Buck tried to keep the smile up, but slowly began to sink to his knees.

Nathan and Vin moved in quickly to gentle the fall. But JD pushed between Vin and the other man whose endurance had been used up. His anger evaporated and was distilled into its true essences of worry, concern and love. "Oh God, oh God, Buck I'm so sorry, I was worried, I've been having to think you were dead, and then you could have been all over again, and I... I... I... didn't mean... I'm so sorry."

Buck had never considered any different. He put his big hand on the boy's head and ruffled the wild hair. He didn't think he had to say anything. He couldn't, he was too tired. He closed his eyes for a moment.

But JD needed spoken forgiveness this time. How could he have said angry things to Buck, Buck of all people, when he had just heard it from Chris and was so sick? "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."

Buck started to respond but Nathan spoke first. "It's all right, JD," Nathan offered gently. "We all say things when we're mad. And we make them sound worse than they are. What we forget to do is say all the things that are so special about our friends when we're not mad. The things we admire in them, like being able to see the good in a man, even in this kinda situation." The tone in the healer's voice caused the rogue to force his eyes open despite his deep desire to rest and forget things for a while. "Buck, there are so many things you do that make me proud to be your friend, I should tell you more often. And I'm proud you'll let me be your friend." The black man's brown eyes met the midnight blue eyes of his tall, dark-haired friend. By willpower he demanded the man to realize this was an apology for earlier, hurtful words.

"Nathan, I..." Buck didn't know what to say.

"Ain't nothin' you need to say, Buck. You do it with your actions."

The rascal looked up and saw that Josiah had helped Ezra into their circle. Ezra had a satisfied look on his face. Josiah wore a peaceful smile.

Nathan was apologizing. Apologizing when he didn't have to, to Buck's way of thinking, and the gunfighter was taken aback by the realization. "Thank you," he said sincerely, and for so much. Nathan smiled at the forgiveness.

Chris had heard it all, with Vin standing a comfortable mainstay at his side. He had almost interrupted. He knew that Buck was afraid of this kind of attention, of direct assurances of loyalty and friendship or, God forbid, love. He had heard words like that too many times from the men who visited his mother and the other women at the brothel. The words had come far too easily to those men and meant nothing. The men were gone in the morning at best. At worst they had beat the women or hurt them in ways a boy might not understand.

Buck liked it better when he had to look for affection or allegiance and see it in the actions of the men and, to a lesser degree, the women around him. He had learned from his mother and her friends that women could say they cared and mean it. Sadly, Chris realized, what Buck had taught himself over the years is that even proven brotherhood can easily be taken away.

Understanding these things after Buck drunkenly explained this theory on life, Chris had thought he was doing the man a favor by never saying in words that they were friends. Until he realized that people like Kestrel were saying things and manipulating actions that reinforced Buck's lack of faith in friendship. And, with no one to contradict the whispered insinuations of inadequacy, they had had room to flourish where they should have dried up and died as quickly as fog when the sun came out.

Then Chris saw the appreciation on Buck's face when he thought he could believe Nathan's words. Buck might believe his surprisingly cynical theory, but he didn't want to believe it. Chris would have to remember that.

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Things had settled. All the fight had gone out of Miller's men once their leader fell.

Chris Larabee strode past where Nathan Jackson was tending to the wounded men of the Rockin' J Ranch. He came across Standish at the edge of camp.

"Mr. Larabee," The southerner acknowledged him without ever looking around.

"They'll be hell to pay when Nathan notices you're not resting up," the gunfighter observed around the thin cigar clenched between his teeth.

"I thought it best for me to keep a low profile in deference to the young man's loss."

A silence followed between them, heavy, but not uncomfortable.

"Hell of a couple of days," Larabee stated.

"Is there something on your mind, Mr. Larabee?" Ezra knew that this one wasn't much for small talk.

The silence stretched out again, but finally, there was a reply. "Buck ever talk to you about things Kestrel might have said?"

"Might have said?" The gambler questioned, but quickly cut the accusatory sarcasm out of his voice when he saw the concern in the dark clad man's eyes. "Some. Not enough to erase the doubts that son-of-a-bitch seeded I suspect."

"He ain't said nothin' to me."

"Perhaps he thought you wouldn't understand?" That was an unkind suggestion and Ezra was surprisingly sorry it was the first thing that came to his mind and he tried to reword it into a gentler form. "More likely he doesn't want to burden you."

"He's supposed to 'burden me'." There was an unreadable quality in the man's voice and Standish fought to identify it. "I'm supposed to stand at his side when there's trouble. I'm the one he's supposed to share a drink with when that trouble's gone," he sounded genuinely confused.

"Perhaps you should speak with him?"

"How do I explain I think someone else is standing where I'm supposed to stand? How'm I supposed to explain all that to a man?"

Ezra Standish turned for the first time to meet the other man's eyes in sincere disbelief. "Two words, Mr. Larabee. Vin Tanner." He let it sink in and then turned back to scan the prairie as Larabee was doing. "I think that Mr. Wilmington may have more than a passing acquaintance with the questioning of one's place at a friend's side."

I'll be the son-of-a-bitch Ezra thought to himself. Larabee's never seen the comparison He could tell by the expressionless look on the gunfighter's face that the pieces had fallen together for the first time. He had really thought he and Buck were the same, and Mr. Tanner was simply a new cipher in the equation

Larabee blew a smoke ring and let it evaporate. Still he said nothing.

"Mr. Larabee?"

"Maybe I should talk to him."

"An interesting concept." The handsome smile and sparkle in his eyes took the sting out of the statement.

The taciturn gunslinger took the statement as it was intended and raised a corner of his mouth in response. Still there was more silence than words between them. That silence might be comfortable for Vin Tanner, but Standish was a conversationalist. "Do you anticipate this conversation to be conducted in private?"

"Oh, hell, Ezra, only if I expect to get two words out on the subject before Buck bolts for the door."

"Then I suggest you have plenty of time to 'ponder' on what you want to say." There was a questioning, slightly threatening look on Larabee's face until Ezra explained, "Mr. Wilmington is not going to be alone in the foreseeable future. I suspect it is going to take nothing less than amputation to remove young Mr. Dunne from our friend's side."

Chris did smile at that. "I suspect you're right."

"Perhaps, Mr. Larabee, we would both do well to start defining ourselves more by the friends we keep rather than the distance we keep from them."

"You been thinkin' on it, too?"

"Painfully so."

There was silence again. Both men were deep in thought. Larabee didn't leave. He contemplated the horizon but his mind was elsewhere.

Standish waited, unsure of what was coming. He could sense that all the conversation had been a preamble to something else. Was their leader going to ask him to leave?

Finally the taller man spoke. It was hesitant, almost embarrassed, most out of character for the man in black. "Back in town. The gunshots. I thought you and Buck were dead..." Ezra turned to face the deadly gunfighter who paused, but finally continued, "... I ain't felt that way since..." The words hurt as much as the memory. "... since Sarah and Adam died." Now Ezra saw only a lonely, lost widower. "I guess I thought if I could convince everyone I didn't care enough to hurt that way again, it'd be a fact."

"There's no need to explain..."

"Yeah, there is. Because I did convince you and the others. It didn't change that I cared. Not a lick. I only made things worse."

"I would have to concede to pushing certain issues... testing how much you would tolerate as it were."

"Didn't have to push too hard, huh?"

"On the contrary. I continually found myself forcing the boundaries. Possibly to the extreme. I kept expecting the worst; perhaps lost perspective that at some point I didn't need to test you and the others anymore."

The silence stretched between them until Ezra continued, "For example, I told young Mr. Dunne the truth about Miller's brothers. One I killed in defense of the saloon manager. The other was hanged. I had no designs on their property legally or illegally."

"I believe you."

"I know - knew you would. If my pride had allowed me to tell you instead of allowing your doubt to fester, this situation would almost certainly not have evolved as it did."

"Maybe we let too many "doubts fester" for you to react any other way."

The silence stretched again. Standish wondered how the other man could feel comfortable with these lapses. He almost jumped when he finally heard the low voice again, "Don't reckon this means we'll stop buttin' heads."

"Indeed not." The emphasis in Ezra's voice hinted that he enjoyed many of the elements of their baiting each other. "But perhaps we have reached an understanding. Especially if it means we can avoid any more of these maudlin conversations."

"Oh, hell yeah!" Larabee agreed enthusiastically. They both smiled, suddenly realizing that one thing they had in common was how uncomfortable they were with this sort of intimate, honest, soul-searching conversation.

When the quiet started to grow again Standish refused to allow it and spoke congenially, "Thinking on it, Mr. Larabee, I shall try to find the opportunity to distract Mr. Dunne so you can speak with Mr. Wilmington."

Chris could tell that the thought of him having to endure this same conversation with Buck amused the gambler to no end. He threw the shorter man a knowing smirk that assured him that the ulterior motive was not missed.

"Come back to camp. I ain't answerin' to Nathan for you," Larabee threw back without missing a beat. The healer and the conman were due for a talk as well. Chris was determined it would occur. Standish read all of that in his leader's tone of voice. The gunslinger wrapped a big, callused hand around the gambler's neck and steered him toward the fire. They made their way back after the agonizingly personal conversation, both realizing that although they both intended to never repeat this moment, it was not just them. There was an almost palpable, gossamer string of the same emotions that threaded trust, peace and brotherhood throughout all seven peacekeepers.

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Most of the cowboys were mounted. Kyte was with them, keeping his distance from the Four Corners peacekeepers.

The big foreman fumbled with the rigging on his horse before, with a determined stride, he made his way over to the men around the campfire.

Buck worked himself to his feet with JD's help. Out of respect, he wanted to be on his feet when he said goodbye to this man.

Nathan, Josiah and Vin stood back to let Buck have this moment with the other man. They sensed the connection between the two even if they didn't understand it. JD walked up to Red right along side of his friend.

Red saw what the other men were doing, keeping their distance, giving them this moment. He noticed the youngster, about Kyte's age, was oblivious; thinking only that his friend wouldn't be alone with these men. And the tall, friendly gunfighter didn't seem to question that the boy was within his place to be here.

Red had wondered how this man seemed to read his soul and his darkest as well as his proudest moments. The young man didn't satisfy all the questions, but a few answers slipped into place.

Buck extended his hand to the ruddy complexioned foreman. "God speed, Pard," Buck said softly. "You take care of that boy."

"I'll keep him busy. If I can get him to talk, I think he'll be better."

Buck suspected the older man was staying strong for the boy; was forcing himself to hold it together. "Let him know you're hurtin', too. Let him help you. Let him know you need him." There was an awkward silence, as if the statement said too much about both of them.

The gambler and the gunslinger returning to camp supplied an appreciated distraction. Ezra Standish stopped back with the others. Chris Larabee strode up to stand by Wilmington as if, like the boy, he had the right and it wouldn't be an intrusion. The rest of the pieces slipped into place for Red.

Larabee offered his hand first this time, and met Red's in a warm handshake. "Sorry how things had to turn out."

"You fought for all the right reasons. Family. Friends. Care," he raised his voice enough to include all of the seven in the statement. "Jason fought out of hate. He's at peace now. And Kyte will heal. I'm glad if it had to happen that it was warmer feelings what won, not all that hate."

The big foreman made a point of walking over and shaking Ezra's hand. "I'm sorry for everything," Ezra nodded. No hard feelings.

Red turned back to Buck. "Sometimes it takes someone from the outside looking in to show us what we've got. What we stand to lose. Thanks."

The others in both groups listened to the words closely.

Red touched his hat brim in a salute, turned and mounted his horse. He and Kyte rode out followed by the others. They led all of their horses except the one they'd given Buck to ride until Paladin was well.

The Seven stood staggered about the campfire as the others rode away without a backward glance.

Nathan worked through the emotions of the moment first, shook his head and headed toward Buck to harass him into lying down and resting. Ezra noticed this and whispered something quickly to Josiah. The words had the big man intercepting the healer before he reached his target.

Next the gambler tossed some words to Vin in a low voice. The tracker smiled at being part of the scheme and moseyed over to JD. Almost immediately he was steering the young sheriff toward the campfire with some new teachings.

Larabee sensed the goings-on behind him and turned for a look. Josiah and Nathan were watching him. Vin caught his eye over JD's head and gave him a half grin.

Standish raised his eyebrows in mock innocence, nodded his head a fraction in Buck's direction and touched the brim of his hat with two fingers. Good to his mischievous word the gambler had manipulated the situation for Chris to "have a talk" with his oldest friend.

The discomfort that surrounded their leader delighted Standish to no end. He knew Larabee wanted to set things straight with Wilmington, but God, those words came hard.

"I think, Mr. Sanchez," Ezra drawled, "Should we ever look up the word 'penance' in the dictionary, the definition will be a man like Chris Larabee being forced to express his emotions.

"Amen, brother, amen."

Buck was still watching Red and Kyte's party ride out of sight. Larabee touched his arm. It seemed to pull the rogue out of a dream state. The smile he threw his friend turned up the edges of his mustache. He started toward the string of horses to check on his mare. Chris fell in beside him.

Larabee got some satisfaction in the fact that he could already hear Ezra and Nathan's voices raised in a heated dispute over rest, changing bandages and being forced to drink some "witch's brew".

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JD's leg was jiggling. Josiah stoked the campfire, glanced at the spiraling smoke and was glad to see the warm heat source had survived the fog.

Nathan sharpened the last of his knives. Only the way Vin's eyes flickered one way then the other hinted at his nervousness. Ezra snapped his pocket watch closed. Three minutes since the last time he checked; over four hours since their missing partners had walked off together.

Ezra had just opened his watch again when Nathan spoke, "Ain't got a lick a' sense, bein' up and around hurt like they are. I'm goin' to find 'em and make 'em rest."

Finally. Standish exhaled as he stood up. A reason to go check on those two wayward menaces to tranquility. And such a legitimate reason. What took us so long to come up with it. He was headed toward the string of horses even before the thoughts completely formed. Tanner was already ahead of him. The others followed close behind.

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"Where are they?" JD asked as he and the others came upon the horses. No one was around. No one else said anything.

Tanner ambled back toward the creek, following the trail so easily that he looked like he was merely on a stroll.

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When the search party came to the small glade, they weren't sure what they were seeing. More exactly they knew what they were seeing, but couldn't make sense of it. Buck's mare was grazing on tender young grass. They were by the creek. Chris and Buck had again migrated to the water when the danger was passed.

Then things got a little bizarre.

Chris Larabee had found a shelf of granite about four feet below the water. It created shallows that were heated by the sun and a natural bench. The gunfighter was reclining back on his elbows, pleasantly drunk, and covered in the warm water up to mid chest. He held a partially drained whiskey bottle in his fist. He was wearing his hat pulled low over his eyes, a bolo tie... and nothing else.

An already empty bottle of red eye lay atop the rest of his clothes that were scattered behind him on the grass.

Wilmington, in contrast, had cleaned up as if going to a Saturday night social. He was wearing a starched white shirt, buttoned at the neck, a sting tie and his best black Levi's. He was leaning against a century old sycamore. He had an almost empty bottle of whiskey beside him along with his saddlebags and a little bouquet of wild flowers.

Josiah suspected that the clothes and alcohol had come from those saddlebags. He had made a fishing pole out of a limb and some string and was intent on watching the twig that passed as his bobber.

There was an old, comfortable peace between the two men. It only confused their newer partners.

"Fishing for compliments, Mr. Wilmington?" Ezra finally broke the silence. He made reference to his friend's Sunday-go-to-meeting attire and tried to sound indifferent instead of curious.

"Shhhhh. Mermaids," Buck responded, overly, drunkenly emphasizing the need for silence.

"Mermaids?" JD squeaked.

Ezra didn't miss a beat. "Any luck?"

"Not a nibble."

Josiah could see an amused smirk barely peeking out from under Chris's hat. The elder of the seven suspected that these two were going to be a handful if they had worked their way back around to the relationship they shared when they were merely two rowdy, reckless saddle tramps. And they would be Pied Pipers leading the others into their rascality. He waited to see what they were up to.

"What'd'ya use for bait?" Vin asked seriously.

With a flick of his wrist, Buck pulled in his line and caught the "bait" in his hand. Then he tossed it to Ezra. "I'd get this checked if I were you. Mermaids can tell a fake a mile off."

Ezra found himself holding his own ring. The red stone winked at him in the sunlight. He had to look down to confirm the jewelry was missing from his finger. He couldn't believe someone had removed it from his person. "Mr. Wilmington, I'm appalled."

"Yeah, I know. But Chris said I had to use it. Said he wasn't gonna listen to Nathan's bitchin' - seein' as I'd have to get wet and all - if I used our regular bait.."

"Which is, pray tell?" The words were out of the smooth talking southerner's mouth even before he realized he might not want to know the answer.

The ladies' man seemed to try to decide how to answer, but there was a mischievous sparkle in his eye that said he'd been waiting for the question. Then, with a nod toward Larabee's nude body, he finally offered, "Body parts."

Ezra blinked very slowly then blinked again as if trying to bring an image into focus... or erase one.

Josiah plopped down on the grass laughing.

He watched Vin walk over to Larabee. The smirk still barely concealed by the battered black hat said the gunslinger'd heard every word. He even raised his whiskey bottle up to Tanner just as his friend got within reach of it.

Tanner sat down and started on the bottle. Buck was telling JD some tall tale about the difference between fresh water mermaids and salt water mermaids.

Nathan was telling Ezra to stop taking his clothes off because he was too sick to get back in the water so soon and Ezra was responding that he would match his "bait" to Larabee's any day.

Sanchez laughed harder. The fog was lifting. He could feel the sun, peeking through the clouds, heating his face and decided that it gave him the same feeling of warmth as being here beside his friends.

 **The End**


End file.
